“Why did I join creative writing?” I question myself in an empty sun room on a cool winter day. I think it goes deeper than just a love of writing and the freedom I feel when I pour my thoughts onto a page. Deeper than the addiction I have to the satisfactory sensation of completing a challenging masterpiece. Deeper still than the joy that comes from elevating a pieces effectiveness by correctly executing a literary device.
One time not too long ago I was sitting at my cheap wooden desk browsing some works on the Young Writers Society. I happened upon one poem in particular about a boy and his friend. It followed the two over many years with one central theme, his friend was gay. In the end it cost him his life.
It is not an uncommon story nor is it a super imaginative topic, but it is the most popular work on there to this day because of how the author crafted it. When it comes down to it, it’s more than pressing your pen to the paper and words flowing out. It is beautiful frustration, editing, and re-editing. It is molding and shaping an original idea almost beyond any hope of recognition. It is writing not only for yourself but the so that the whole world can have your words long after you pass.
I have a strong desire to learn and develop my assuredly rusty skills. I hope that by taking a course about the art of writing creatively I can improve my ability to make my readers really feel what’s happening in a story or poem rather than see it. Perhaps I can even lend some experience I have gained from my many years of writing to beginners.
I also always seem trapped in a cloud of self-doubt. I spent hours on a piece; yet I spent no time on it at all. With one swift key stroke I trash all my hard work; I am never good enough, wasted time. In this course I plan to expand my abilities and confidence beyond their usually poetic application and imagine whole novels if I can. I am fed up with quitting all of my most promising creations just because I felt dejected.
For me, running my fingers effortlessly across keys or my hand swishing over a paper is incredibly relaxing. It gets to the point where my mind goes on auto-piolet and for better or for worse, my emotions materialize themselves on the page. Sometimes they lead to something magical, other times something dark. More often than not, they lead to nothing at all. I have learned that that is okay because the most important part of writing is the experience, even if it is total garbage.
“Something more than that even, more personal.” I get up and pace now, the cool tiled floor unpleasant against my bare feet. A robin chirps in the distance, its bell like call bringing a new idea to my head.
I remember when I was only ten and I was compelled to write my first fictitious story. I picked up my favorite stuffed animal, Hippie the hippopotamus, and created a whole fictional family for him. It ended up being a tale about a group of bipedal hippos living in a house. There was no drama, romance, or suspense. Just some hippos in a house. But my mother and grandmother praised me so I continued with my writing.
A few months later I picked up poetry. It was confusing at first but I absolutely adored nursery rhymes and lullabies, anything with a stead rhythm. I spent almost a week writing three crude lines about the life of a watermelon. This sparked a whole new passion in me for both music and poetry. As my timidity lessoned I blossomed into a brilliant writer well above my peers, yet I denied it every time and was convince I utterly sucked at anything involving the English language.
If I am being truthful, I want this to be my profession. Editor, author, poet, lyricist, anything that will let me fashion words into captivating tales that unlock the imagination. There are boundless possibilities with an extensive vocabulary and a proper education. I could design whole worlds and dictate the lives of the people living on them. I could convey news and teach lessons through mystifying characters. I could forever immortalize the story of a lover’s devotion
I can’t deny it: I am a writer.