Why I Write
Why I write. Why I write. Why I write.
Why I write.
Why I write.
I first type, change the size, change the font, change the spacing, change the indent, and then I write. Using a visual representation of the disorganized methods I utilize when starting a piece is quite dramatic, but to me, the whole writing process is a production. Explaining how I write will help to provide insight into my own desire to change the reason for which I write.
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With a due date set for a week away, I spend five of the seven days ruminating on the assignment. I use ruminating, and not thinking, because I am not using those days to develop ideas, instead, I am focusing on difficulties (oh, the drama!) I will experience when I finally get myself to begin. As the looming deadline begins to encroach more forcefully on my mind, I demand myself to open the document and silently dream about being whisked away into a caffeine fueled writing frenzy. But, my silent prayers often go unanswered. Instead, a blank page reflects back on my blank gaze. It was not always like this.
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The shelves in my bedroom are jammed with old journals, pages detailing elementary school happenings, and misused advanced words that I overheard my older brothers use in conversation. I would write until my hands became covered by poorly glued-on glitter from pens bought at the craft store. Writing was my outlet for creativity, and my mom would have to pry me from my desk when dinner was on the table. Above those journals sits a large vase crammed with papers of different shapes, colors, and sizes. I kept every single handwritten note that I have ever received, not because I am a hoarder but because I am enchanted by the nature in which people express themselves. Each birthday card, milestone marker, or random profession of appreciation is crafted in a uniquely perfect way by someone in my life.
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I have always been told I was a good writer. I am the designated friend to edit essays for my “expansive vocabulary,” and I usually receive grades on papers that work to fuel my ego and harden my facade. I am told that I am a good writer, yet writing does not feel good. Clearly, I loved to write once, as a curious adolescent, and continue to appreciate writing from those around me, so why do I, as a 20-year-old writing minor, dread an essay? The difference is that as a child I wrote to express, similar to how I cherish the earnest and unprompted messages from friends. Now, however, I only begin to write for the purpose of a grade. I have lost sight of the beauty that writing is, and instead, consider each essay to be an opportunity to reveal my lack of talent. I write to fulfill the expectations of others, and in doing so, I have lost my own desire to create.
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This essay is disorganized and disjointed, but I hesitate to dwell on it further in order to starve the part of me that yearns for validation. My hope is that from now on, after confronting the anxiety I have developed around writing, I will begin to reinspire myself so that the next time I update this paper I will have my answer and I can simply begin with:
Why I write.