I am a writer.
I am a writer.
There, I said it. I spoke it into the universe.
It’s 12:03 in the morning and I’ve been attempting to write a story for the past two hours. My drafts are filled with eight separate story attempts from the past two hours alone. Each entry holds a solid paragraph or two that slowly digress into jumbled nothingness.
I am a writer.
I feel frustrated. Writing used to be something that came so easy to me. It was my cathartic release, I could sit down and write for hours.
I can sit down and write for hours.
Writing became a passion for me during my senior year of high school. I joined the school newspaper and to my surprise, it quickly became my favorite part of the day. I would sometimes even come into the writing lab to work on my stories during lunch. When college applications rolled around I treated the essays like a hobby rather than a chore — they were fun for me.
Outside of school, I began to write creatively. I purchased a $170 Chromebook off of Amazon — the display casing was cherry red and the keyboard casing was matte black. It was cheaply made and had limited functionality but it was mine. Over the next six months, it became my second home and a source of comfort.
The upcoming transition from high school to college was, simply put, difficult for me. I had a relatively unperturbed childhood and the looming college transition was triggering new emotions and mental strain I was unaccustomed to. I had managed to avoid the high school party scene, did not work out, and was not especially emotionally open or communicative with my parents.
As a result, I coped through writing.
Every day after school I would come home and lock myself in my room. For hours I would sit at my IKEA desk and click away at my sticker-bombed Chromebook. Over time a story began to emerge and I decided to write a book.
I am a writer.
Six months later and 142 pages later I had finished my first novel. I typed the closing lines in my college dorm — thousands of miles away from home. 1,425 miles to be exact. I remember closing my computer lid and going for a walk in the midnight heat of Arizona — tears slipping down my cheeks.
Anguish.
At the time I told myself the story was fictional. The plot, a generous designation, followed a high schooler as he methodically disappeared from his ordinary family and ordinary life to live a life of extravagance on the beaches of Miami.
I had not penned a silly little fictional story — it was an autobiography. A poorly written one but autobiographical nonetheless. I had put all my worry, loneliness, frustration, resentment, anger, and sadness into this story of escapism. And as good as it felt to express those emotions through written word, they remained just that — written word. Hidden in the pages of a two-dollar binder I’d purchased from the campus bookstore — for my eyes only.
The past three years I maintained the belief that my secret novel was just autobiographical in thought — after all, I hadn’t actually disappeared without a trace to Miami and partied on yachts with strange private school kids.
June 2020.
I decided to revisit my book for the first time in nearly three years. Upon flipping through the pages I came to two realizations. First, that my teenage angst must have muddled with my ability to write cohesively (some might argue I’ve never been able to write cohesively)— the text was littered with grammatical errors. Secondly, I realized that I had lived out my book.
I may not have flown to Miami. But I did decide to attend school at Arizona State University — an intentional choice largely informed by the long distance from home. I may not have disappeared without a trace. But I did keep much of my new life hidden from my parents and high school friends. And although I certainly did not party on yachts, my life contained more extravagant experiences that had not previously existed.
I am a writer — and now, apparently, a psychic.
Revisiting my old writing was eye-opening. Seeing how I had hid and held onto my emotion brought a crooked smile to my face. It aged me and gave me an appreciation for how far I’d come. I’m proud to say I can now express my emotions both in written AND verbal form and am getting better at sharing with others (in appropriate settings).
Rarely do we get to interact with a past version of ourselves so complete and frozen in time. They say a picture is worth a thousand words — making my 64974 words are worth 64.974 pictures — a slideshow of moments defining over six months of my adolescence.
And so I’ve found another reason to cherish writing — for its ability to freeze fragments of time — readily available for me to revisit.
Or not.
Some versions of myself I will leave in the past, laid peacefully to rest — starting with the frustrated, uninspired, lethargic writer who has taken over my keystrokes recently. His moment in time is over.
I am a writer.
