Young Writers Society

    For her, life was a constant whirlwind of events and actions that were somehow completely interconnected but also disinterested in each other. She didn’t want to be cheesy, but she felt as if no one else’s life had ever been more deserving of the common metaphor, “life is a roller coaster”. And this is why she loved to create reality. She wasn’t an artist. She didn’t combine shapes and lines to create a representation of a present reality. No, she was a writer. With nouns and adjectives, verbs and adverbs, she decorated her paper with vivid portraits and colorful landscapes of worlds she only wished existed. When she wrote, she became separate from the world she was existent in, and present in the reality within her own self. If she felt lonely, she could write a world for herself where loneliness was void. If she wanted adventure and new beginnings, she could pen a story about a girl who traipsed across the globe, experiencing life and living out dreams.

    Not only were her creations a way of materializing whimsical fancies and outrageous dreams, they were a way of expressing to the nearest accuracy, aside from within her own head, her emotions and innermost thoughts. She had learned the hard way that wearing your heart on your sleeve was not conducive to having a stable emotional state, and so instead of expressing by word of mouth, she expressed her being by ink and paper. So, when she was feeling butterflies of affection, she wrote down her silent musings and fanciful hopes for relationship. When she was sad, ink and tears combined to form sentences of melancholy rants and tearful exposés. And when she was incandescently happy, and her thoughts were moving at 1000 miles per hour, sometimes all she could manage to write was a simple “…”, because she felt silence was more moving than white noise.

    To clarify: she wasn’t some disillusioned nut job who was unsatisfied with where and who she was; she was simply a romantic who was so comfortable with feeling and dreaming that writing simply became a way to share that part of herself. She knew she was blessed in many more ways than one, and she loved the world she was in, a good part of the time. But there was still something within the words she strung together on a page that breathed life into her. When she looked at her hands and saw ink stains and callouses from consistent pen use, pride swelled up inside her. And when she read through her journals and short stories, she was griped with perfect bliss. She loved her writing and she loved to write. A part of her wanted to keep it to herself, because it was her niche, but the rest of her wanted to share it with her friends and family because it was her, and above all else she desired to be genuinely known. And to be genuinely known by anyone, she felt that they would have to read her words, because her written words were like a portrait to her whole being. She painted truthful realities and fake ones, and in the midst of fiction and fact, she wrote herself the same in every story she authored: She was Chloe McLaren and she was an advisor and comforter, a shoulder to cry on and a smile to take in, but above all else she was a writer, who loved what she did.