The Write Set of Mind

"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." – Sylvia Plath

To put it eloquently, I love to write. Chances are, you (yes you, reader) know this. I became what I like to think of as a "serious writer" in fourth grade. This was when I decided to begin my first novel. I can see you sitting there, a small smile on your face, thinking, "Aw, how cute." But no, seriously. I began my first novel at the ripe age of nine years old. I would park myself in front of the computer for hours creating characters, scenes, and various plot lines. The font was size 12, Times New Roman, and it was single spaced. I never did finish that untitled first novel, but when I abandoned the project, it was more than 100 pages long.

In fifth grade, my teacher, Mrs. Roberson, would occasionally distribute short story assignments. Amid my classmate’s groans, I’d quite literally squirm in my seat as my mind came alive with possibilities. I wrote about a haunted Halloween, a man who escaped slavery by creating a look-alike robot, America’s first settlers. One of my proudest moments was when one of my stories was selected to read out loud to the class.

In middle school, I further enhanced my skill by keeping a journal in which I documented the inner workings of my preteen mind. I documented my hopes, my dreams, and my downfalls. Interactions between my crushes and me were carefully written and analyzed. (I still remember the time Dillon Lees played with my hair in Spanish class – sigh.)

High school led me to discover the healing power of poetry. I enjoyed the challenge of making rhymes, or not. I still wrote in my journal, but poetry was another, more abstract, outlet. I loved it that I could write poems, hiding meaning between the lines. I would make references of "him," and the audience never had to know who "he" was. (Sometimes I didn’t even know.) I poured myself onto pages in stanzas, and it was beautiful.

Fast-forward to college, where opportunities to write creatively were far and few between. I didn’t let that stop me. I was determined to express myself through my writing voice. I added sarcasm and (what I hope was) wit to an essay on utilitarianism. Even though I wasn’t asked to, I shared my opinion at the end of a final paper on Darwinism (read: BS). Even when it was quite literally impossible to be creative (mathematics, this means you), I still poured my heart and soul into penning group member evaluations as a last-ditch effort to be creative. I was relieved when I declared a major that allowed me to write, with my creativity as my only limit…

…which leads us to now. As much as I’d like to resume writing in a journal, which I stopped doing shortly after high school, I won’t for a long list of reasons you probably don’t want to hear. So, on a less personal note, I opted to enter the blogging world, where I plan to write whatever I want. And for me, that’s the beauty of it.


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