In fourth grade, I was an avid reader. I read book, upon book, upon book. I would get in trouble for reading in class and stay up all night reading. I’d show my teacher passages I found beautiful or funny (probably much to her annoyance.) Naturally, I soon picked up writing. After this discovery of writing, everything changed to the words that I wrote. I’d write story, upon story, upon story. I would get in trouble for writing in class. I’d write in my blue spiral notebook until late into the night. My teacher would write in the journal we had to turn in weekly that I had “quite the imagination.” This comment made me feel on top of the world.
I decided to be a writer. And so I did. I wrote stories similar to the one’s I was reading. I remember once writing what now would be considered fanfiction. I wrote myself into Harry Potter. Of course, because why wouldn’t I want to go to Hogwarts? I wrote about two young orphan sisters who were really wizard-mermaid hybrids and their adventures under the sea. These wizard-mermaids, Bluebelle and Iris, were my favorite characters. Their lake life was so much more exciting than mine with evil queens and wonderful friends. I wrote because I wanted to be like J.K. Rowling or Angie Sage. I wrote because I had ideas that I thought were amazing and full of the fantasy I loved. I thought I would never tire of that type of story. Of course, I did. In seventh grade, I’d graduated from reading children’s fantasy books to those young adult romances. The ones with pastel covers and one-word titles-- I’m sure you have heard of a few. Maybe you’ve read Sarah Dessen’s Dreamland or Deb Caletti’s novel Stay? Naturally, my writing transformed as well. No longer was I putting words to paper on knights and fairies, magic spells and monsters. I was writing about what I saw going on around me. I liked the sense of validation I got from writing characters to have the same dramatic reactions to the events that I did. It became quite popular for my classmates to ask to read my story. Once I wrote a chapter, I’d pass it around to the people who had asked to read it. This story was the most drama filled thing I have ever written. On top of the drama in the book, I had so many superstitions when writing. I had to write in colored pen. It could not be black. On the margin of all “back pages” of the notebook paper I’d write a lyric from whatever song was stuck in my head. On the “front page,” I’d write the title of another song that was stuck in my head, in bubble letters of course. I guess I thought the more effort I put into how I wrote, the better the actual writing would be. I thought the plot of my in-progress book was “realistic” of my middle school life in the middle of nowhere and would connect with middle schoolers everywhere. Writing about a middle school relationship that started after just one conversation, I clearly was a master of prose. I wrote because I thought I was good at it; and I wrote because I liked the attention I got from it. In eighth grade, I became good friends with this girl named Melissa. She was a short girl with long, messy blonde hair and an extremely crooked smile. We had almost the same exact interests and both were currently trying to write middle school love stories. We decided to swap and give suggestions. I remember opening up her black notebook and smugly smiling at the fact that hers was written in pencil because mine was written with a rainbow of gel pens. I hadn’t thought of it as a competition, until I noticed the lack of color. I thought that meant that I was winning but then I started reading. Somehow, this other eighth grader was able to beautifully capture the awkwardness and relatability of middle school years. I wondered how she did it. There was no dramatic fights, no multiple perspectives, and there definitely was not a Friday night football championship against the rival school. Her writing was detailed and clear, concise and lyrical. Melissa had done a much better job than mine. I realized, my writing wasn’t that good. I had built my love of writing around on what I thought was the fact that I was good at it. I had quite the imagination after all. I handed Melissa’s story back with comments, mostly on what I liked about it. I reread mine, it did not hold a candle to what I had just read. My writing consisted of many “and thens” and the word “that” covered all over all the pages written in pink, blue, orange, green, or purple ink. Melissa had been kind in her comments, but we both knew hers was much better than mine. I stopped trying to write my own novel and focused on reading them instead. I had lost confidence. However, I did miss it. I had ideas and characters in my head that deserved a story. But I was discouraged. When high school rolled around, I became incredibly busy. I did not read as much, and I definitely only wrote for school. I was busy with tennis practice, basketball practice, piano lessons, and rehearsal for the winter show. Even when writing for school, I did not try to push boundaries. All I wrote was the five paragraphs that were necessary for me to receive an A plus grade. I wrote because it was required of me. Near the end of October during my Sophomore year at MHS, life slowed down. Tennis season was done, and I was not participating in basketball nor piano any longer. I had time on my hands. I discovered this cool program called National Novel Writing Month which was to be held in November. The goal-- to write 1,667 words per day, ending in a 50,000 word novel-- seemed daunting. I recalled seventh grade and the joy I felt crafting the story. I decided this was the year to try it out. After the first week, I wanted to quit. I was already behind 3,000 words and I had no idea where I wanted this story to go. When I found an idea, I was impatient for the story to get there and everything was rushed. I pushed myself to continue to write, day after day. I took the time to discover how to translate my emotions into a story that made sense. Most of those 50,000 words are terrible and need to be cut, my day by day mood swings made “Just Life, Baby” incredibly disjointed. That story will never see the light of day, I promise you. But the act of getting all of those feelings down and the rush of finally finishing a project made my heart soar. I wrote because of that unmoving deadline and word count goal but it reignited in the fourth grader in me who had wonderful ideas. I have not gotten to participate in NaNoWriMo since. Even though I regained my love of writing, I still did not like to do so in an academic setting. Until college, that is. Freshmen year of college at the University of Michigan, I learned that an essay doesn’t have to be boring and that writing non-fiction does not always equate the five paragraph boring and tired structure. I have gotten to write essays that incorporated my life experience, as well as made a clear statement on the prompt. An essay prompt on a picture turned into a declaration about what I really won in high school. I learned how to do this from authors I had previously known from their novels, such Alexie, King, Atwood, and professors who knew what most students think about papers. The differences between Stephen King’s Carrie and his essay “On Impact” are large, but they use similar elements. I had never consider that to be a possibility before. I know now that the academic essay can include humor, personal feelings, and more. Through my classes, I learned to write because I have a viewpoint that only I can convey. Each of these stages of writing has stuck with me and developed me as a writer. Currently, I write because I have ideas I think are amazing. Because it’s sometimes required of me and I like to think I’m good at it. I write because I like the attention I get from it. I write because I have a goal. I’ve just discovered I write to discover and express my viewpoint. Maybe someday, I’ll slip back to forgetting how good it is to write. And maybe someday, I’ll write a 50,000 word novel in a month again. No matter what, the girl with quite the imagination will always be inside of me, waiting to bring her ideas, characters, and stories into the light. |