I am a very quiet person. Ever since I was a child, I have kept my thoughts to myself. That has always been my way. Too often, my nose has been pinned to the pages of countless books. Books were my refuge when I did not care for the reality around me; with each page that I turned, I sank deeper and deeper into worlds and stories that seemed so much better than my own. One book would lead to another. Food was ignored, and so was sleep. If a book grabbed me by the throat, I would not put it down until I had finished. As a child, I was amazed by these worlds that these authors had created. I still am. Those worlds were the reason why I picked up a pencil and began making my own.
When I talk, I don’t always know what to say and I stumble and trip over my words. Soon after I discovered a love for books, I began to write and I found that I could express myself so much better in so many ways. If I write the wrong word, I can simply cross it out and replace it. Writing as a child and a teenager soon became my refuge when I could not find the words to speak. It seemed simpler to put words to paper then to pull them from my mouth and give them sound. I began writing in notebooks where I emptied my thoughts, my fears, my hopes, and my dreams. These notebooks also filled up with stories, fragments, dreams, and my experiences and emotions. I held nothing back.
When I write, I write as honestly as I possibly can regardless of whether I am writing fiction or not. I do not write as much as I wish I did, like most people I have plenty of room for improvement. But I try. I keep a notebook that I hand write in every so often. I do not hand write everything, but there is something about the way scrawled words in ink fill the page that appeals to me. If I am upset, I will free write until I calm down. It always works; it does not make my problems go away, but writing about makes it easier to handle.
I do not have a set writing regimen. I am terrible at self-discipline and I am easily distracted. I love writing but I often let my emotions and insecurities as an artist get in the way. I make excuses for myself that I don’t have time for it, my idea is terrible, or that it is not worth it. When I pick up my pen sometimes I am gripped by the fear that nothing I write matters anyway, so why should I bother?
Perhaps my pessimistic self will be right and I will never get anywhere with writing. But I have to remind myself that that is not the reason why I write. I write because it is my refuge, I find solace in words when this world becomes too much. I am a writer whether I publish or not. With this class, I hope to learn discipline, to improve my writing regimen, and to see if I have what it takes to keep up.