Blog # 11. Essay 2.

I don't have a title for this yet but here goes...


My 2nd Essay.

I was sitting at a diner last night with my best friend. Our food didn't arrive yet so I was able to tell him about my day. "Writing is such a huge part of civilization," I say as I think back to my last class. I tell him how writing is such a major impact on the world. I begin a conversation about a couple stories I had to write for another class and how they connected to previous poems I had already written All the intense moments in my life, I turned to writing- to break down the extremity, dissemble it and help me deal. "Maybe that's your writing style," my friend says feeling my passion through my words. My eyes shift began to shift as I qickly thought back to how a pen and paper become the most essential tools throughout my life.

The first real poem I can remember emphasized the cruelty of friends and the impact it had on my life those three years in middle school. The poem was titled "Hidden Secrets." The girl I wrote about was was in school with me and I don't think she realized what I was feeling. This marked the beginning of my realization of true friendship and how if that gets destroyed, it can get be returned. I ended up losing many friends in middle school- "dropping them like flies" was an expression I used a lot. They happened to all join together in a union against me. Their leader, Janet, used to also be a friend of mine. I can still picture her eyes, squinty like, but enough to show evil through them. At that time, she made an effort to taunt me, attacking me for sport- an extracurricular activity she participated in full- time. I had to pass by Janet and her snickering clan, playing their never-ending game of follow the leader to get to my mom's car. Janet followed me and put her arm around me as she looked back at her friends and laughed. I wanted to break her arm off and destroy her but I just kept walking. My mom was my support system. Most of the time i just ignored them, knowing my mom would raise my spirits and tell me how special I was. My home was a separate dominion and when I was there, nothing else seemed to matter.

Now when I drive past that school, It's so hard for me to recall good memories but I can't help but turn my head in it's direction every time. "The worst years of my life" I always say but I guess it was a learning experience, all happening for a reason- a cliche I know, but for now, A cliche is what I can start you off on and I promise I'll be more specific.

I didn't like the way I looked in middle school. An assumption of many was that I was a nerd even though I was just as average in school as many of my classmates. Boys didn't really notice me and if they did, it was for the usual commentery. I would always know when someone was thinking something. And even when I wasn't being criticized, I still felt insecure about my looks. My biggest enemy was the mirror and how I would try so hard to look a certain way, to fit in even in the slightest way. I hated my bangs. I felt like I had a small animal resting on my forehead. I snapped one day when I took out a hairbrush and pressed the wire bristles against my think bangs, just enough to feel the pain on my forehead as my crying turned into a raged scream. But getting a haircut just made me feel worse. I cried the whole way home. My guy friend at the time called it my bang operation. I remember coming home from my haircut and crashing onto the kitchen floor in tears. My thick bangs turned into a few strands. They eventually grew out but I was completely devastated going to school that way.

Highschool was when I came out of my shell. I got voted 'most changed since freshman year' when I graduated. It was different in highschool- Major changes occurred the start of my junior year when guys were actually interested in dating me- a few of the ones in middle school who seem to forget I existed. I didn't make much of a fuss over them though even though I liked the attention. I had my group and I classified us as the weridos. Any way I could stand out to prove how I didn't give a shit about what others think, I did. I dressed up like a guy one day and another day I wore crazy makeup on my right eye. Me and my best friend at the time called it our freaky fridays. I was happy with how I looked after I got contacts, got rid of my bangs, and my braces came off. Funny how that works huh? My Sophomore year in high school, before my "dramatic" change, I came into homeroom with my hair strengthened and I felt pretty. My teacher noticed my change and adressed that all I needed to do was get contacts and have my braces taken off. She compared me to the girl in the movie Princess Diaries- you know, the girl who has the big makeover and became a knock out. Oh yea, that's great for my insecurity. Eventually, another peom came forth. This one is called immerged beauty. It will always stand out as my favorite for what it represents in my life.

When I was 16 years old- the summer before my Junior year in high school, I fell in love with a boy from Italy. This seemed like a once in a life time kind of thing. An unbelievable first time experience that gave my life a heavy spin. He came to America for english lessons and I met him through my family. The sense of loss afterward left me in complete devastation. The next summer I went to Italy with my Uncle and his family to spend three with with him. I often think that maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe it wasn't real. How could I be so happy? But I was happy because I didn't think about our ending. After our three weeks were over, I had to go back home to reality. It wasn't long after that we both broke apart I tried to fight for him back the beginning of my senior year but I realized something- When you know what it's like to touch a form of pure happiness and then try going back and living without it. It is impossible. For a young girl who never experienced something like this before, it was brutal. We didn't want to go back to phone calls and emails. My only way to deal with it was through poetry. Poems after poems were written and it eventually healed me. I would gaze out the window as the weather grew colder, clutching on to a notebook, and a collection of poems grew.


Where did all my other poems come from? I often call myself the dark poet because I don't write about happiness. Rarely I recall life's fruitful moments. Whenever i experience something, I just need to get it out as fast as possible before I lose any sort of explanation. The same themes kept showing up through my work- death, change, depression. Writing has always been a part of my life. Trust me, I am not a miersbale person but that's where my inspiration comes from and I feed off it. We all have our own style.

I remeber in the 6th grade, I had to do my first writing sample. I don't remember the topic but I wasn't nervous because I didn't learn anything about this before and I wasn't informed that it was a type of assessment. Maybe I just wasn't listening which wasn't totally rare for me but when I received my assignment in front of me, I just wrote what I thought- anything that came to my mind, I wrote and it was fun for me to just invent. My english teacher read this paper in front of my class that same year. I felt so proud. Sitting there and listening to a teacher say to my peers that they should possibly wrote more like me? Ok, so maybe she didn't say it quite like that but she used my paper as an example. This was the same teacher that made me see I had a talent for wriitng, that creativity defiantly dwelled inside me and I thought- yea, you know, I do like to write. I love it. She urged me to keep writing and I tried to keep in touch with her after middle school but she didn't return my email. I still carry around her advice around though.

After that year I didn't do quite as well on other writing samples even in highschool. I felt more pressure on those days and it was difficult for me to just start writing. The first time was just plain me. Sure the punctuation sucked but it was me. How was I supposed to say what I want without worring about time limits, rules, and oh no, was I off topic?

I felt that school sometimes made you think too much into writing instead of feeling it- stripped you down to the bear minimum. School can take the realness out of you. Rules can sometimes constrict you and make you doubt yourself- thinking that you can't possibly get your writing a certain way. You can't let yourself think outside the box- the true irrational thinking I now surrender to all the time, was more suppressed. Creativity is hard to come by when your told to write a certain way. Even today, there are those teachers or professors that want you to write their way. They see great idea and what you wrote just wasn't it so you change your paper completely around. Why? Many times, this is where the doubt begins to form even more.

How many times did i doubt myself in college? I never stooped. I started out in writing and i swtiched to early childhood eduation because of my fear that i wouldn't get a future job. "I'm just going to be a teacher and write on the side," I would constantly say. But teaching was just not for me. I remember telling a certain professor at school of my conflict inside my head. She told me a lot of people pick teaching and regret it later on. I realized right then and there I'm just going to go back to what I really want which is writing. My third year in, I switched but its ok- I'm graduating this year- not bad after five years. My mom does bombard me with questions of my future. "What are you going to do after school?" "You need to pay off your loans and you need health insurance! " Most of the time I'm quiet, taking it all in, trying to distract myself with something. But it hurts. Especially when I'm scared too. "Mom, i'll get a job, ok. I might have to work to get where i want but ill do it." Nothing comes easy- i know this. I can't begin to describe the times i cried believing my work won't even be close to being published or even recognized. I just want to insprie the world- help others through my writing and in some way connect with them.

I call writing my love/hate relationship. It drives me crazy. I can never get what i really want to say out. It's all lies! And many times I think to myself- maybe i don't want to write, maybe theres something else out there. Then why do I keep going back to it? No, no. It has to be for me. For the first time, I'm going to except it. You can't deny who you are. It just sucks because unfortunately, you can't control doubt either and you can't force a career upon yourself no matter how much passion dwells inside you. I can see myself working for a magazine somewhere in NewYork City carrying a long my dreams in my right hand.

I told the same friend I was eating with how rational I think his mind is. I know he hates this but its true. He sees things for what they are. I go beyond. You can explain rational thinking I always tell him. It's the irrational kind that's hard. I think back to my science class- a class I need for graduation and only the past two classes I been actually forcing myself to pay attention to. Always the same routine. "Bing" the elavator sounds to the third floor. It's so quiet when I reach the top- no one is around. There are specimens of scientific evidence all around me- explantions, facts, and theorys. I notice maps, and certain rocks and minerals in showcases along the route to my class. I don't belong there. I find a seat in class and my mind begins it's drift session until I tell it to concentrate.

A guy from one of my english classes yesterday said that he think of himself as a fraud as a writer. He said it with a laugh and I knew he was only half serious but I often feel the same way. But really, when we compare ourselves to other writers without getting anywhere near their talent, it's normal to feel like a fraud. I joked back and eventually said that with writing you can never be perfect. What's the defintion of that? You can keep getting better and better but you can't write up a version of complete perfection. The Greek Philosopher Plato saw writing as a form of imitation- far away from his idea of an "ideal world." Writing can never perfect, but you can come close to describing a feeling of perfection and the beauty around you. Writing gives you that ability. It's beyond expression. I feel that you are putting a form of yourself into the world. In science or mathematics, we can get to where we can find out the answers. It might not come easy to some of us such as me, but it's something we can learn through practice and study. Many people might go down that field because it is possible. If you don't have it in you, you can't learn it. Writing is based upon what you want to say and how you want to say it. It depends on you- the individual. And no one can ever steal your style. I didn't think there could be anything that can take away some of the doubts and fears I been facing, but then I recently learned about Longinus. He is a greek, rhetorician that believed in the acquired knowledge and rules you can learn to get better at perfecting your skills and connecting with your reader , but ultimately he saw writing as a natural, innate ability. Some people have it and some people don't.

I was talking to my best friend on the phone when I first switched my major to English. "I don't know if I'm good enough. There are a lot of great writers out there," I said in a voice that sounded more tense than serious. He held my optimism. "Yea, but you're a great writer," he replied back. "There's a lot of great writers too," I rebuked. "Well, the world can always use one more." His last sentence made me pause. Writing has always traveled with me throughout life and I think I just started to realize that now. Do I have a set focus? No, but I want to write and that should be enough. It took me this long to figure this out but I think I'm stronger. You can't hide from your shadow. It's a part of you and follows you wherever you go. I'm not saying the road ahead will be easy. As a matter of fact, it won't be, but it is important to remember one thing. You can't runaway from who you are. Accept it, embrace it, and give it to the world.