Sophomore Biology major, third floor Barnes. 10:15 a.m., third Thursday, Block 4.
I’m sitting at my usual table next to two people I’ve known since freshman year and one that I met this block. My professor is lecturing, just like every other day. I’ve been here since 9 a.m., with a quick five-minute break at 10, a little early for a break, but nothing crazy. It occurs to me, though, that I’ll be sitting here for the next hour and 45 minutes straight. In this room. In this seat. Without moving.
Throughout my years of writing, both personally and academically, I have found it much harder to share my writing with friends and family than with strangers and acquaintances. To mitigate my struggle, manifest in caution and writer’s block, professors have told me to write as if I’m writing for no one.
I am writing this from one of two coffee shops, not including the six Dunkin’ Donuts, in my small outside-of-Boston hometown. Like so many CC students, my hometown is 45 minutes outside of the city, so my freshman year I said I’m from “Boston” until I was challenged frequently enough with, “From, like, Boston-Boston, or from outside of Boston?”
