I’m considering writing a book. Again. For some reason it’s one of those ideas that sounds really good as I’m falling asleep. But then I wake up the next morning and remind myself how stupid trying to write a book would be. I do have some confidence in my abilities, however. So I’m going to try to regularly write in this journal, just in case. I’d hate if I decided a book was a good idea, but by then had forgotten details of what I wanted to write about. Plus, journaling is supposed to be good for your soul, or something like that.
Dated 9/4/2001. I wrote these and some other thoughts on the first page of a twelve-cent, 70-page notebook. Had there not been two blank spiralbounds sitting in the bottom drawer of my desk, serving no purpose but as spares should my others spontaneously combust, who knows (spontaneous combustion is always a fear for paper covered with things like calculus notes). If it were a challenge to write stuff down, I might have ignored all the chapter topics and other ideas that kept sneaking into my head.
Maybe it was God; maybe He gave me some writing talent with plans to one day shouting in the back of my mind, “Write a book!” Oftentimes when it was dark, I was tired, and it was time to crawl into bed, that thought would come up. Finally I decided to run with it, and pulled an empty notebook out of the drawer.
Over the summer I had considered the idea, even took the time to type a vague outline. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how pointless it would be. I was going to write a book about the summer before college, and the fears of an eighteen-year old preparing for possibly the biggest change of his life. Its one promise was its uniqueness – after all, what teenager has the desire or time to write a book?
It sounded like a decent idea sometimes, but not often enough to convince me. The school I would be heading off to at summer’s end started classes early, so I’d never been hired for a summer job. Had I chosen to follow through, I probably would’ve had the time to write something. Except the central question always remained – time to write what? So I did nothing.
The first days of September I was reflecting during my blurry pre-shower, early morning minutes. I had become a college student, largely taking care of myself. I had adjusted to the move away from home, I was fine, and the worst was over. Move-in was two weeks past and classes had started more than a week ago. What blessings, being assigned a roommate who was cool and professors who were only marginally intimidating!
Sadly, several friends from home (not to be sexist, but the ones having trouble were girls) frequently complained of homesickness, trouble meeting people, and so on. Nobody wants their friends to be unhappy, and I tried to think how I might help out. Having moved so early, I was in a position to offer suggestions and support. I attempted to make my friends feel better and convince them everything would be ok.
Did I succeed? Maybe a little. Whether they listened or not, I do think I gave decent advice for once. If I was talking to someone who missed her family, I would try to remind her that thousands of people were going through the same adjustments, right there on the same campus. My favorite advice – I was proud of it because it made sense and seemed helpful – was, “Just don’t worry about it. Keep busy, meet as many people as you can, and you won’t have time to feel homesick. By the time you stop to think about it, you’ll be comfortable and you’ll have people to talk to.”
As far as learning to cope, that’s all there is to it. But there’s more to life than feeling comfortable and having a couple people to hang out with. It’s a whole different ballpark making close friends, getting through classes, and taking care of yourself on a long term basis. As someone who used to worry way too much, I can identify with people spending their entire summer stressed about the move to school.
As someone who still worries more than I should, I can identify with people who might struggle to get through their first semester without going crazy. I was determined not to lose it, and I have a source of strength that won’t wimp out when I do. God supports me every day, and there is no doubt in my mind that the Christian path I’m trying to follow is better than any alternative.
Can I write about this? My mildly original, bright and shiny idea assumes that I can. I was scared about going away to school. I worried about meeting people and living in a completely new environment, and would love to help even one person be less afraid.
However, considerable difficulty lies in being open about my experiences without incriminating the people around me. I hope to find a workable balance between honesty and privacy. My own privacy is of little concern, but naturally I’ll have to refrain from using many peoples’ names since I haven’t told anyone I’m writing a book.
I’m going to try to tackle some difficult issues, and I can only pray that my point of view is interesting. My goal is to reach high-schoolers nervous about heading off to school and – more importantly – freshmen trying to adjust. College life is a big part of American culture and, like anything, there are stupid assumptions that go along with it. There are many traps for uncertain new students to fall into, and I’ve seen how easily we can find ourselves in one. Maybe, just maybe, I can get to someone who woke up today sick of the lies and looking for hope. Here goes nothing...
