The Years I Learned to Write

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you,” Maya Angelou said once. This is a quote that has been a huge part of my life. Though, I may not have always known it. Since before I can remember I’ve been reading. To me, it’s a way to travel to many glorious places. While it is not always good to throw oneself into different realities of books, both reading and writing helped me grow as a person and it has raised me up to where I am today. It is a quality that is essential in life, and it has gotten me through some of the hardest things I have gone through in life. Today I would like to share an experience that I feel developed my writing skills and has made me into the writer I am today.

Junior high. Ages 11-14. All genders are going through that stage of life where we experience changes. And because of that, it is easy to be made fun of. Even before junior high, I was always reading. Reading about fantasy worlds that didn’t exist and medieval times that would never return. I don’t remember when I began to love medieval times. Maybe it was my mother who introduced me to the show Merlin when I was young. I do know that at some point medieval times became my hiraeth. It was a place I longed and still long to be. Most girls of my age at the time thought about boys, makeup, and kissing. While I dreamed of sword fighting, castles, and magic.

I knew that those things were just a fairytale in my mind. I knew the difference between what was real and what was not, and yet I still got made fun of. Not just for my dreams but for being a good student. For being on top of my grades and for being so so lonely. And so slowly, I began to wither away. I sunk deep into a depression. Sobbing every night into my pillow longing to go back to a place that happened a thousand years ago. I screamed hoping the pure torture I went through every day at school would just stop. It didn’t. Not until I picked up my pencil.

I remember the day so vividly that I began to write. It was a gloomy day in March. My mom had just dropped me off at school. I can see the large building before me. “Lincoln Academy,” the sign above the school read. That dingy red, white and blue sign I passed every day was even duller than the day before. I opened up the doors and took off to my first-period class. I remember sitting down next to the window. As class started I realized that I had already gone over everything they were talking about. I pulled out a lined piece of paper from my bag. I don’t remember why I did it but I began to write. I turned the girl who longed to be in another world into a character on a page. It seemed as more words began to form on the paper, the less gloomy the sky seemed that day. The sun began peeping over the clouds to take a glimpse of the words. Later, as I waited for my mom to pick me up that day, I began to realize the world I was in was seemingly more beautiful than it was earlier. “Was this because I wrote a few chapters of a book? Maybe,” I thought smiling to myself and running my hand through the soft green grass. As my mother pulled up, I turned around looking at the trees whose silver buds seemed to glisten and for the first time in a while, I was disappointed to go home. To leave this spot where everything was so sacred.

Now, my school life did not automatically get better. Of course, I was still teased and made fun of. It was like that up until I graduated high school. But writing gave me the strength I needed to push through. And from that one moment on, my writing became a strength for me. My writing tool whether pen, pencil, or quill was my greatest ally. In my worst times, I would write and in my happiest times as well. Each important memory whether happy, sad, or angry each has its own chapter for my character. Her life is just like mine. It has its ups and downs. Has love and loss. And her life is made from ink. Just one small morsel of the real world. And yet it has such power as to make my life bearable.

Today, I’m in college. Sophomore year. Looking back on these times I’ve realized that writing saved my life. I never thought I’d make it this far. But each word I wrote encouraged me to go on. “Go on,” each word rang out, “Write another chapter.” So I did, and I’m still writing today. Writing about long walks with the ones I care about. Writing about the relationships that have failed me. Writing about how beautiful the world is at night. The words flowing like a river intent to find the lake one day. I have no intention to ever publish what I’m writing because the day I finish will be the day I die. I hope that if I ever have children they will read what I have written and continue the story of our lives. I hope that writing will inspire them and you, like it has done for me. We learn to write in school but do most people ever truly learn to write? That is for you to decide. For me, it is when one learns not only the beauty of words they write but when they begin to notice the beauty of the world around them that they have truly learned to write. In conclusion, for me writing is is a way to travel to many glorious places and a way to develop one’s character. Writing has made me into the woman I am today and has helped me tell my untold story.

Citations:

“Maya Angelou Quotes (Author of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings).” Goodreads, Goodreads, www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/3503.Maya_Angelou.