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16+ Language Mature Content

My voice is a pen.

by AyumiGosu17


Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language and mature content.

My experiences as a writer and learner so far are not necessarily pleasant or remarkable. As a writer, I recall ridicule the most. This ridicule came from my mother, dissecting and disapproving of my first few attempts to write creatively during middle school, which turned me into a writing recluse. I no longer share my works with my family directly; I only talk about them in theory, not what’s actually on the page or the inspiration behind it. There was ridicule from my classmates, teasing me and constantly trying to steal my work so they could read it, only to make fun of what I wrote out loud during class; from my former friends in a self-made creative writing guild, who shunned and disapproved my writing because it wasn’t as gothic or gory as theirs or tended to be more academic than theirs. Again, this reinforced my transition into a recluse. I also faced ridicule from my teachers, particularly Mrs. Utley and Mrs. Pryor, both of whom rolled up my academic works prepared for Advanced English 10 and AP English 11 and 12 and handed them back to me to “redo” because they didn’t agree with the topic I selected; also from my undergraduate professors, particularly Dr. Montgomery and Dr. Slobodchekov, who continually used passages from my works, both creative and critical, as poor examples or “what not to do’s” in class, when the truth boiled down to a difference in opinion, close-mindedness, and differing perspectives, since I had ample reference material to disprove them. The end result was ridicule from myself, for feeling like my writing is not good enough, that I will never be able to do more than journal or daydream through my fantasies and historical fictions, that my academic writing will never be anything more than just regurgitating what the teacher wants to hear, read, see, agree…

It wasn’t just writing, though. Reading was just as uncomfortable and discouraging, considering that my first memory of reading in school is my first grade teacher accusing me of cheating on the STAR Reading Level test, berating me in front of the entire class over it, making me retake it only to score the exact same grade twice, and then yelling at me when I tried to check out a third grade level book anyway - which was well within my STAR range. It took five teachers, four grade levels, countless trips with my mother to the public library and bookstores - since I avoided the school library like the plague after my first grade experience - and an antique gift from a stranger in Troy (and by antique, I mean a book published and printed in 1933, which I still have to this day) to inspire me to try reading for my own pleasure again. Even then, I hated reading. I told myself for years that I hated to read. And for the longest time, I actually believed it.

Until I met Tylor and began to explore reading and writing for my own personal uses and benefit, I hated English and was definitely not an advocate for it. Although I did read a lot, I convinced myself it was more of an obligation than anything. I hated it to the point that I willingly jumped into Pre-vet school, despite the fact that I maxed out the ACT English score and won every essay and playwriting contest I ever attempted. I have been exploring this stigma of mine for a couple of years, as I’m trying to get back into the passion of reading and writing. The truth that I have discovered is this: I have never actually hated reading and writing. On the contrary, they are part of who I am and how I navigate life. Personally, reading takes me away from uncomfortable situations and memories; it helps me understand and cope with things that other people have committed suicide over. Reading also inspires me and encourages me to seek truth and deeper knowledge in the world around me. Writing, for me, is my way to express myself wholly, without fear of ridicule from others or having to share uncomfortable and even painful memories out loud. Writing itself is silent expression. Blank pages and the backs of scratch paper know more about me and my life than even my closest relatives and friends. These pages understand me more because of the personal allegories that I put upon them.

Writing is my voice. Writing is my thoughts on a page. Writing is the salvation of my sanity.


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23 Reviews


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Sun Mar 21, 2021 9:38 pm
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YellowSweater wrote a review...



I am so sorry you had such an awful experience with sharing your writing. This essay is truly excellent. It's clean, clear, concise, and passionate.

I loved the line: "Writing itself is silent expression" That's such an interesting idea, I had never thought about it before. But in that silence, I feel like there is space to truly be yourself.

I am a huge fan of creative non-fiction, especially well-formatted stuff like this. Thank you so much for sharing! - YellowSweater.




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Thu Mar 04, 2021 8:52 am
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illy7896 wrote a review...



You have done an amazing job on this, and you have a very nice writing style. It seems like you were born to be a writer from what happened to you in the past, and keep on going.

I like the way that you have explained what happened to you and your emotions in a factual tone, which indicates that these personal feelings are as strong as knowledge- it just is, it's who you are and there's no denying that.

anything more than just regurgitating what the teacher wants to hear, read, see, agree…


I found this a neat line because it illustrates the repetition of academic life and even the repetition of what your friends thought of you. Over and over and over again, its the same thing that you hear from others around you. Although I can't relate wholly, I can definitely relate to this line. This essay could also be a remark upon society and expectations- that people can be stubborn and quite often are stubborn on their opinion of writing and millions of other things, and I'm sure many artists or people, in general, can relate to this. Gradually, you start to hate writing and reading because of what people thought, and this is another way that people can agree with this since creatives are often put down, and since we think outside of the box or differently, people can't quite understand what you're trying to get at and discredit it because it's independent of the majority. And then you learn to loathe. But, you gathered yourself up and try again, and that's a strong thing to do. This piece is a mix of story, essay and autobiography, but that's awesome.

There is a little thing that I think you can change, it's completely up to you and it's very good the way it is:

My experiences as a writer and learner so far are not necessarily pleasant or remarkable. As a writer, I recall ridicule the most.


Within these two sentences, you repeat writer twice so maybe for the second one, you can say writer but in a more metaphorical way: as an artist of the pen or something like that. This is your choice, and this was really good, and do keep on writing, because you've really got the skill.

I enjoyed reading this.




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Thu Mar 04, 2021 8:14 am
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Torres wrote a review...



Hi! I'm here to do a review!

I love this essay!

I can totally relate to you. Ever since I was young my parents never really took interest in me. They would unintentionally, intentionally ignore my achievements and criticize me as if I am one of the people that work for them. They would also get angry at me for no particular reason like I'm their own personal punching bag.

That is why school, my part time work and my siblings became my refuge. I learned from them that if ever I want to tell someone about their mistake, then I would tell them with care, not with anger. I would tell them firmly but with smile and compassion.

Overall, this essay is a great emotional essay that went and hit me and made me reminisce about my own experiences. This essay is a great representation of the quote; "When we love, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too." by Paulo Coelho.





You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.
— Anne Lamott