I don’t remember when I first started reading, just that I always was told that it was important. I do remember sitting on the couch with my mom and my little sister, Caroline, as I struggled to pronounce the words that meant nothing to me. Needless to say, Caroline learned how to read before I did. I remember being more interested in the colorful pastel pictures than the actual story that I didn’t really understand. I had no idea that the words I glanced over would become a huge part of who I am.
Since those early days on the couch with my mom I have become an avid reader. I can still remember the rhyme in one of my favorite children’s book entitled Forever For Always. I enjoy reading a wide variety of genres and have that typical obsessive-compulsive tendency to be physically unable to put down a book until I finish. I read the seventh Harry Potter book in one day, with an hour to spare, and won a dollar for beating my older sister, Emily. I loved Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and was devastated when my dad told me that the over a thousand-page book I had read was only the abridged version. To this day, George Orwell’s 1984 and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird are my two favorite books; followed closely by J.D Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. I am terrible at writing formal essays, but when assigned to do so on these books, they were the easiest A’s I have ever received. To me, books are just like movie scripts. The writer provides the set, misleading plot, the twisted characters, the action and imagery; all you have to do is close your eyes. Most movies are based off books anyways. Ever notice how similar the movie V for Vendetta is to 1984?
I don’t think that there is such a thing as an original idea. Emily used to keep a journal filled with movie lines, song lyrics and quotes said by famous people in history. I used to stow away into her room and read through the notebook full of the
same clichés that were simply said in a different style surrounded by varying adjectives. I didn’t even care that I was going to get in trouble for sneaking into Emily’s room. I couldn’t help myself. I loved that there were so many different ways to express ones self, so many words at my disposal that carry such weight. I find that this weight is like a catapult, once we cut the rope the shear power is released and even though we may not see where the boulder lands, damaged may have still been caused. Sometimes, we don’t think, but a simple thank you can make all the change a person’s life. Eventually, Emily started locking her door as to stop me from stealing her books, but I foiled her plan by learning how to pick her lock using a clothes hanger. Fed up with my annoying intrusions, Emily told me to stop reading her notebook and to just try writing on my own. I wrote a poem about memories entitled “Memories.” I knew that it was a subject that was very overdone, but I figured the real writers, who are older than me, already took all the good ideas. It was then that I concluded that there is no way I can come up with an original idea, my only choice is to put my own spin on an old theme. Just like all the people Emily had quoted in her journal. After nervously watching Emily decipher my poor handwriting I was told to never stop writing. Which is why, now, when I get in trouble for writing in class I simply respond that I am only doing what I was instructed all those years ago.
When I first started writing, the style that truly captivated me was poetry. I saw poetry as the best way to transform a common idea, and make it into something different by surrounding it with detailed imagery and elaborate metaphors for my readers to discern. When we started to learn about the components of poetry in school, my enthusiasm was usually matched by groans made by my peers. They saw poetry as something that is written to make readers’ brains hurt. I saw it as the most intriguing puzzle ever! It does not, as stereotypically thought, require a rhyme scheme; there are hidden symbols knitted into the piece; the form in which the poem is presented adds all the more to the visual aspect of the overall poem; the metaphors and similes are proof of the writer’s pure creativity and ability to see things in a different light. The connotation of each word must be balanced before
even being considered, as its power can determine the direction the piece will take after being interpreted by the reader. You are only given a few lines to write in, but so much can be done. Even a voice can be heard. In my eighteen years of reading, I had found that in each book I read, the speaker has an audible voice throughout the entire work just by the words he chooses to say. That’s what appeals to me most, the writer’s ability to express his or her voice through the words that he or she writes.
I easily classify myself as someone who is quite quiet, so my voice is not something that bounces off people’s ear drums that often. I understand that public speaking is a common Achilles heel, but it’s more so for me than anyone I know. My fingers will writhe in my hands, my pulse flares into a dangerous range as my legs begin to bounce under the table as I attempt to release the nervous energy and my head is kept down. I just find that words come to me easier when I’m forming them with ink. When I’m writing I can make the conversation go in any direction I choose. I can get my point across with no one interrupting me. When I am writing, I know am guaranteed to be heard, even if it’s just by the sheets of paper in my notebook. With so much going through my head, sometimes I just have to get things out. Whether it comes to you after much contemplation or during a daydream. Even if it means getting in trouble for writing during class, it would seem that my love for writing as a cathartic release is more appropriately described as an addiction like that of a alcoholic. It’s bittersweet in that I love the feeling of an accomplished piece but it burns as I realize that there is so much editing to be done and I am left itching to exercise my wrist again.
Last year in my creative writing class, I was able to spin my wrist in other directions than just poetry. I was taught different types of poetry such as villanelles, sonnets and slam poetry. We focused on sound imagery and form. We also tried our hands at one-act plays and short stories. We also kept a journal in which we wrote freeform in each class. I loved it all. I didn’t even care that I had to present every piece I wrote. I didn’t care because it gave me a chance to speak. To show people that I’m not just some kid who wastes class time writing in a spiral green notebook.
My one-act play entitled “She Said Yes…” was in the top six in a competition we were forced to submit to, and my villanelle won honorable mention in a contest. My
teacher, Mr. Benware, and my friends constantly told me that I have talent, but it fell upon deaf ears. I do not like to boast about my pieces because whatever complimentary attributes they are given, I know I am not yet a writer. I still have so much to learn, and I know that being at Siena College is going to get me one step closer to that admirable title. My grammar is still not exemplary and my mom still complains about my poor handwriting. This however is not going to put a damper on my writing. I like to think that my ideas and twists on normalcy are something worth reading. I like to think that my perspective is worth reading and discussing. I do not have a special delegated ballpoint pen, nor do I have a really cool retro quill that’s reserved for writing in some special secret notebook. I do however have numerous pens and a pencil in my backpack ready to be used. There is something about holding a pen in my hand when I write the letters that form the words in my head. There’s a kind of old-fashioned satisfaction that adds to the experience that just makes my scribbles worth etching.
Now that I am at Siena, it has become more difficult to find time to write, especially by hand. So, I have begun writing a journal type of document on my laptop that is filled of my observations, memories and random thoughts. The document is entitled Contemplations of an Emo Kid: “the so-called problems of an angst-ridden teenager from middle-class nowhere.” I am fully aware that I am not emo, however, I just like the title and I think that emo is a funny word because it reminds me of the word emu, and emus are funny. This type of thought process is the epitome of my random writing style and evidence of my tendency to lose focus in essays, but everyone has their strengths and weaknesses.
My weakness is formal essays. Like most people, I am terrible at writing formal essays. I find them restricting in their structure, and confusing. It’s more like expanding on a checklist. You must ensure that you hit certain points with enough information to support what you say. There is little to no room for your own personal style, let alone your voice. Recently, I have begun free writing before I
delve into my essay so as to get my thoughts in order, and this process has helped me improve my amateur essay skills. I am often frustrated that there is an imbalance between my ability to write formally and creatively. Life can’t give you everything though. Some people are good at focused essays; some people have short attention spans.
Life has given me an adoration of writing though. That obsessive-compulsive tendency I have for reading has transformed into an obsession of writing. A skill in which I plan to enhance as I continue learning from professors in college, the books I read, and the critique of my peers. So, let me apologize in advance if I write during a class, presentation, or while you are speaking. Please understand that I am merely following Emily’s order to never stop writing. Who am I do deny such a request?
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