Gwendolyn Sobkowiak | staff writer

It’s a quiet Sunday evening, and I’m without an article for my editor.

This isn’t new. I love writing, but sometimes it just won’t come out. When I was little I’d try to keep journals but I struggled to stay consistent. The writing felt stilted, it was too childish even for my little ears. I was learning to string words together, disappointed by how clunky they sounded in comparison to the enthralling pages of C.S. Lewis, L. Frank Baum and Louisa May Alcott that I devoured.

The older I got, the harder it became to write. There was a feeling of observation that came with it, the sensation of someone looking over my shoulder correcting my syntax.

In middle school, I started taking my writing more seriously. I wrote short, ugly stories and made my English teacher, who was more patient than I deserved, read over them. I would stand at the edge of his desk on my tiptoes, waiting for him to sigh before giving me his notes.

I received a lot of encouragement from my teachers, which was undeserved, but appreciated nonetheless. Still, the writing wouldn’t come out. I’d go weeks without so much as a scribble. Suddenly though, a random burst would hit me, and I’d be filling up pages again.

In high school, I read more than I ever had before. I was behaving as if an Alexandria-esque attack was going to befall the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh. I had a goal of reading every “classic” novel ever written, which was the loosest criterion ever made. My writing improved gradually, shifting tones to match that of my latest reading obsession. But I hated writing for classes, and I showed my work to very few people.

In college, I found it intolerable not to write. My head pulsed with new experiences, trying to find a way to process it all. Still, I found myself writing most easily when it was not premeditated. The thoughts had to percolate before they could find their way out. I started writing for The Duquesne Duke my 4th year and poured myself into it.

Now, in grad school, I find little time to read. I find writing to be hard to harness. My lovely article editor (Naomi Girson) has to call regularly to remind me of my looming due dates. It’s strange, because I still love writing, it just comes best when I’m not looking for it. I have to set myself a different task, like washing the floors or cleaning the cat litter box, before my mind can build itself up enough thoughts to string together into a coherent piece.

Since my externship for grad school is in the acute care facility at UPMC Mercy hospital, I’ve been trying to avoid books with any heaving material. I’ve been leaning on my childhood favorites, especially at night.

Right now I’m finishing up rereading “The Phantom Tollbooth” by Norton Juster. It’s this cute little novel full of wordplay and secret messages, with a deliciously clever cast of characters. I always was in love with the creativity of Juster’s writing, how he encapsulated the strange and illogical quality that words could have. This Sunday evening as I experience writer’s block, I can’t help but remember Juster’s introduction to the book.

“Like most good things that have happened in my life, ‘The Phantom Tollbooth’ was written when I was trying to avoid doing something I was supposed to do. Some people are like that. I’m one of them,” Juster wrote.

I’ve come to realize that I, like Juster, may be “one of them,” too.

Gwendolyn Sobkowiak can be reached at sobkowiakg@duq.edu