I have always enjoyed writing. The first story I have shared with my classmates dates back to the last year of middle school; I was probably 12 or so. It was a cheesy story from a boy’s perspective of his love for a dying girl. Very melodramatic.
The first time I was writing because I wanted to was in middle school. Having a pen pal was very popular back then; emailing was not common and not every household had a computer. My classmates and I would write letters to each other every single day, despite the fact that we saw each other in class all the time, we talked on the phone after school and we walked home together-it was a sign of the depth of our friendships. We would wrap the letters in layers of envelopes, gift wrap papers, as though the wrapper was more important than the letter itself. Receiving a letter was like receiving a gift, there were letters decorated with stickers and happy faces. Those were my first memories of writing.
In high school, instead of writing letters, I passed a notebook with my friends (they were not the same friends I had in middle school). We would write about our mundane life, banal things that happened during the day, it seemed like it wasn’t much but the accumulation of the ordinary brought us closer. At one point, I had a silver notebook and started writing stories in it, I would pass it to my friend NS. Sometimes I would make up words and explained as though they were actual words; thinking about it, it was quite embarrassing. NS was always very encouraging and believed in me, in my work; despite the lack of proofreading and bad grammar. Although it wasn’t great writing, I didn’t stop writing; high school was not easy, there was definitely teenage angst and writing was an outlet.
Fast forward to college, NS was going to an art school and was taking a book binding class, she decided she wanted to print the short story I had written about sneakers hanging on the utility pole lines and make it into a book. It is still at the Pratt’s library. I still have a copy at home. I took two creative writing classes; they were very different; one was structured around style, we would read a story and follow the writer’s style. The other one was independent of the reading, we would read writer’s insights on writing and write our own story within a certain length.
After graduating, for a few years, I haven’t written much. Lack of time was an excuse, I haven’t disciplined myself to write. Writing comes in surges, when I am emotional about something, it reads like a letter to my intended audience without addressing or sending it to this audience. I have trouble expressing myself and sometimes I don’t realize the depth of certain feelings until it is too late; my processor is slow, I need time to process. It’s not a matter of filtering the feelings but I have learned early on, reaction and raw emotions can easily cause destruction. You say things you don’t mean, and later on you cannot retract.
Writing allows editing which is a means to revisit those feelings, finding words that are more accurate, discovering greater depth, introspecting and delving into the real meaning of events and occurrences. Editing is not used as a vehicle to hide the truth; instead it is used to reveal it. It is a solidarity act; hearing advice from other people is wonderful, but it is a projection of their lives, beliefs and experiences, when you listen to yourself, you hear your own voice. I am susceptible to the opinions of others; there are a lot of times when I want to avoid conflicts and follow along because I thought the older is wiser, the happy ones know the secrets to happiness and the successful ones know how to live a good life. Writing lets me hear my own voice and clears up my mind from distractions.
When I am sad, I write. It might be pointless rambling, but at the end of the day, it clears up my mind and finds a purpose. It is one thing in life that never fails me. Good writing, bad writing, that is not the point, the point is to write.
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A couple of years ago, I met a friend who had told me she had a miscarriage. She was depressed; her boyfriend’s mother was very supportive and thoughtful and had only good intentions for her. However, she was having a hard time coping, every day she would write in her diary, she wrote for a few months, and eventually she stopped. She said through writing, she was able to endure the pain and slowly get back to her normal self. By the time, I have met her, she was cheerful and full of good energies.
People heal differently, it is important to get in touch of how we feel. Recently, I reacted towards something very emotionally, I thought it had to do with jealousy but when I slowed down, thought and wrote about it, I realized, it had to do with trust and forgiveness. When I had my own space to think, that was when I discover the truth of my reaction. Had I trusted, had I forgave, it would just be an ordinary day. I couldn’t, I was not ready. So our story finished.
nanansa 