I find there is a lot of pressure to make what
you write sound beautiful; to make the ugliest of topics sound like warm milk
and honey in the ears of the listener, and to make each word connect in a
romantic way.
I’ve spent my life writing. It all started with
my first crush in kindergarten. Of course, he had no idea that I liked him. I
kicked dirt in his face at recess and let him fall off the slide when he tried
to kiss me, resulting in a broken heart and a broken arm. Maybe it was guilt,
or fate finding me at a young age, but that was the day I started my first
diary. I gushed about my love story behind closed doors, telling no one but the
pages beneath my pen. That was the day I fell in love with words. I realized
that they, even penciled lightly, held meaning. They could bring me comfort
even if I was the only on who knew those sentences existed. Ever since, writing
has become my safe place.
I started scribbling my thoughts down in any
way possible. I wrote my first “novel” at age eight, although it was merely a
combination of stories I had heard in my childhood. At nine, sitting on the
floor of my hot pink bedroom, I wrote my first song with the six base strings
of a guitar I didn’t know how to play. Although the story was foolish, and the
song had something to do with the benefits of recycling, each step opened my
mind to future possibilities and helped my grasp the concept of creativity.
As I got older, I turned to journalism to
express my love for writing. My high school class schedule was full of
newspaper and yearbook classes, even advanced journalism courses. By the time I
was a senior, six out of my eight class periods were dedicated to some form of
writing. I balanced my time between the school newspaper, and holding my
position on the yearbook as Editor In Chief. I spread myself thin and wore
myself out to the point of completely abandoning my love for writing when I
graduated. I promised myself a yearlong break, only to find myself impulsively
applying for my college newspaper with no previous thought into the
possibility.
It has always bothered me that, as humans, we
physically can’t remember every event in out lives. For every confrontation and
confession there are many words forgotten. I think that’s the reason I’ve
developed such a strong addiction to recording whatever I can. I admire writers
who can make words drip with undying appeal, but I don’t write to sound tender
and impassioned. I write to be honest and to communicate how I feel in each
moment. I try my best to capture true emotion and hold every event to its real
manifestation. The reason I write can be summarized in my love for translucent
nostalgia, as unclouded by the mind’s fantasies as possible. I’ve quickly
fallen in love with the way that simple words can bring you back to a moment,
however horrific or beautiful, and help you relive each breath.
I have written everything from break-up anthems
to college-directed stories based off of trials on social media apps. If you
Google my stories, I’m sure that you’ll find a large amount of work I’ve
published. The best part is that isn’t even half of it. The songs I write, the
words I record, the beautiful, gruesome details of my absolute normal life are
written on torn papers and shoved away in binders on top shelves.
I write to share my stories, my trials and
errors. I write to remain silent, and voice my secrets to a nonjudgmental third
party. I write to remind myself why I shouldn’t make the same mistakes. Until
now, this is the closest I’ve come to sharing my actual feelings. It’s a little
extra raw without a melody to carry my emotions. Maybe writing in this
unassuming, blog format isn’t my thing. But I know for certain that writing is.
Comments
Post a Comment