Writing has always been an outlet for me. Ever since I could hold a pen, I’ve been scribbling nonsensical wiggling lines across any surface I could reach that would retain ink. My imagination won me many award growing up. It always amazed my teachers that I was able to grasp poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction so well. Then life’s adult stresses set in and my writing juices dried up. Sophomore and Junior year of HS, I didn’t write anything unless it was for school (which includes my phenomenal score on the HS writing test). I was able to get enough mojo back my senior year to place in the top three of the celebration of writer’s for the 7th time and then pass AP Literature and British Literature with A’s before the well ran dry again. In college, my major was Early childhood education, so I was doing plenty of writing… except lesson plans are boring and literally painful to write (especially when you have to re-write a 10 page lesson plan three times because you’re professor is a heinous wench!). College was stressful. After I stopped trying to make people who are morally against me, like me; after a long painful year; and after I changed my major; I decided to get back to my first love.
I took a creative writing class and I immediately hated everyone in the class including the teacher (I’m a snob when it comes to certain subjects). The professor was a weird little man who liked quirky sex stories, and the class was mostly pretentious sophomores who thought they knew everything about life and weren’t even drinking age *rolls eyes*. In my opinion writer’s are awkward, or weird, have a past, an over active imagination, or are crazy as hell. Only three people in the class fit that description and I was one of them. The first day of class, I got there early and claimed my seat. Then I wrote about how I get writer’s block. The class started and I forgot all about it. We are required to do daily free-writes, write several poems, creative non-fiction, and a short story. My poems were last minute and thrown together, my short story was a a cheesy love at first sight novel, and my creative non-fiction was GOLD! It was a conversation between two people, one liking the other, and asking if the person was gay. The class missed the entire point of the piece. I didn’t write for a while after that, I was so confused. How could they not get it? I came to the conclusion to stop trying to write for others, it makes me unhappy. The only way I will be able to get happiness from writing again, is to do it simply for the means of lessening the weight of my soul. I think it’s working because I’m able to find comfort in writing again.