By Jaron Zanerhaft, BTS Communications Copywriter Intern
I live in a single room with the ceiling, floor, and all the walls painted white. A barely discernible shadow of an outline marks the door. I sit in a lonely white chair by a lonely white desk, hunched over a typewriter and protected by a wall of stacked pages six feet high—the dense drivel of my life’s work. My fingers spastic, my eyes wide and manic, I write in perpetual fury, unable to tell the difference between night and day. I clung to this like a hopeful dream and bonded with the comfort it made me feel. I would be isolated and safe, but most of all I would write.
I’ve always loved writing—there’s just nothing like the marriage of ink and pressed pulp to get my blood flowing—but I need to make my writing more accessible. Now that I write for an audience, I crave clarity. My internship at BTS Communications gives me a space to learn, to practice wordcraft, and to bounce ideas off of people who care about and respect writing. Working in an environment where I can braid structure, creativity, and ambition will help me shape and advance my lexical passion toward a useful end.
I also hope to overcome a fear that has stood in my way for far too long—the fear of not being able to change, getting stuck, not being able to move forward. I have started so many projects, but no matter how important they are to me, I find myself running from the permanence of the written word. I can lead my mind into a notebook or an outline, but when it comes to committing that first draft, the pen and paper might as well be a chisel and stone. I know I am not alone in this fear, but I think I have found my way out. With motivation through BTS communications, I believe I can transform the shame of inaction into the pride of accomplishment. The more easily I can swim in a certain style of prose, the more quickly I can get over mistakes.
Since working for BTS Communications, a new vision has started to creep behind my eyes. I can see myself on a cold, dark night, sheltered inside. Nestled in an armchair next to the fireplace in my den, I hesitate for a minute to breathe. I let my fingers linger a moment on the keyboard of a sleek laptop. I finish the last sentence and send it to my archives, safely tucked away in electronic files. I close the laptop and walk into my bedroom. Comforted by a streetlamp glowing in through my blinds, I drift off easily, peacefully awaiting the collaboration and criticism of my colleagues in the morning.