Why do I write? I used to write because it was my idea of fun. My dream was to be a writer, an author with best-selling novels capable of reaching the same heights as Harry Potter. Back then, the “book” ideas were endless, a perpetual stream of thought and plot that never ebbed, never dried. Sometimes I couldn’t even get everything down on paper in time, the waves were so huge. Those that I managed to salvage, I couldn’t wait to see take shape into a story. My greatest pride was a novel that I wrote for Nanowrimo, a months-long writing project for middle schoolers, which evolved from a page of measly brainstorming to 70 pages of the most magnificent story I had crafted to date.
Then high school came around, and my primary currency of writing became essays. Interpreting, inferring, analyzing, organizing came nowhere near as easily to me as imagining did. At the beginning of the writing process, my thoughts are always scattered and chaotic, zooming a mile a minute. The pen can’t quite keep up with my mind, a recipe that bodes ill for timed writings and DBQs. But as all things are, timed essay writing was a process that improved with practice and hard work.
As I sit here writing this reflection right now, I can confidently say in my heart of hearts that I love writing. I’ve come to realize that my strengths and passion lie in my creativity, but all writing, in its diverse shapes and forms, opens the mind and shapes the human condition.
