To my readers,
My life seems much more complex than it truly is.
Reflecting back on all of the “first” days of school, teachers usually asked their students to share something interesting with the class. For me, this was always rather difficult. Scanning the room, I could always tell when someone had come across the most perfect story to brag about. I would scour the memories of my dull summer, and like always my brain would suddenly freeze. Every year, I would listen to all of the lavish and adventurous stories of traveling to foreign countries. Where every year I could feel my pulse strengthen where soon enough I was convinced that my heart would leap out of my chest and sprint out the door.
I have always been nervous about other people’s opinions of me, especially when it came to my writing. For me, writing is everything. I have been scribbling down my most treasured thoughts, precious memories, and most secret secrets into journals. Everything that I had created was honest. My journal entries were so raw and special that if I had ever found out anyone had even glanced at one of my records, I thought my whole world would collapse. For a long time, I was ashamed of my writing abilities.
Never being a person to wildly boast, I have become my worst critic. However, once I become entranced into the flow of typing, my fingers press down on my laptop’s keys, creating their own music. Listening to the relentless rhythms and therapeutic notes, the words fall onto my screen like the ocean’s tides rushing against the shore.
Writing was my only outlet. Hiding in the shadow of my younger brother, my feelings and needs were placed on the back burner. While he was able to play basketball, soccer, and baseball, I was only allowed to watch his practices and games in “awe.” For nearly ten years, I was the child no one realized had existed. My ideas were immediately shot down and rejected; my journal was the only one who would accept any thought or concern. My journal was the only thing that relinquished all of my anxieties. Through the open and blank pages, I was given a plush field to run around and explore. I would craft my new voice into words and into poems that would soon be enveloped into my being.
My journal has protected me throughout my entire life. Yet as years would pass, so would my loved ones. What started off being simple writing, my writing turned into something I had yet to uncover about myself. I began to critically think and learn how to interpret my inner thoughts and feelings.
Writing is a much more difficult task; like many things, it takes time and genuine effort. Finding the particular words and finding an exact way to phrase what is intended, is merely the beginning. To make something interesting and thought provoking, the topics need to be fully developed. Exploring the surface of an issue would only have the audience in a state of dismay and confusion.
My writing is an exact representation of who I am and whom I am going to be. The subject matter, though at times might be vastly complex, will always be apart of my inner self.
Writing is a pure form of art; yet all art is, is beautiful work. Both through the written word and spoken word, language has been crafted to make a bleak or an ordinary world come to life. With styling language in a certain fashion, we are able to accomplish anything. We take simple, even, mundane words and transform them into language beyond our wildest dreams. Taking the dialect that is created; it is adjusted to the audience making the subject matter interesting.
Over time, I have seen a great amount of promise in my writing. In it’s infantile stages, it was hard to digest. Now, it has beautifully transformed into something I am proud of.
It is true; the skills that are not practiced will slowly fade away. I am at peace with my work, for my art is always changing for the better. Striving for excellence is hardly the way to become a great writer; it is the long and grueling hours of practice and the strong itch to better yourself that will make the greatest impact.
My life may be common, but my writing abilities and love for language is what sets my story apart from the rest. In order to grow as both a person and a potential author, I have to be honest with myself. I cannot live in a lie or in the lives of my characters. The best stories are the ones we can create with our words and our minds; the possibilities are endless.