I’m simply a nervous wreck. A nervous wreck, I say, and all because I cannot think of a single thing to write about. Ideas just won’t come. I lie awake nights wracking my brain for a worthy thought but no such ever finds its way to the surface. Confidentially, I’ve been noticing lately light traces of lines upon my forehead , and creases between my eyes; I’m sure they are from nothing but this dreadful worry. I’ve found too that one receives absolutely no help whatever in this respect from fellow would-be litterateurs.
By a student in 1929
Setonian Staff Writer
I’m simply a nervous wreck. A nervous wreck, I say, and all because I cannot think of a single thing to write about. Ideas just won’t come. I lie awake nights wracking my brain for a worthy thought but no such ever finds its way to the surface. Confidentially, I’ve been noticing lately light traces of lines upon my forehead , and creases between my eyes; I’m sure they are from nothing but this dreadful worry. I’ve found too that one receives absolutely no help whatever in this respect from fellow would-be litterateurs.
“Oh, there are plenty of things to write about,—anything will do,” they say. And I am left to wonder just what “anything” might be. I used to be terribly distressed and think I was simply a hopeless failure as a writer, but now that I am taking psychology, I am convinced that the trouble lies merely in the lax functioning of the axons of the brain in transmitting the thought sensations. But when my axons get connected, I’ll be right there! For stimuli are many,—out responses, oh, how few!
M. Stratman, ‘31