When I was in third grade, I wrote all the time. I would write the beginnings of an admittedly cliché story, and I would proudly show it to anyone who would be willing to listen. I carried around a journal where I would write down my ideas and snippets of narratives that only an eight-year-old could come up with. My teacher, Mrs. Jones, would tell me that she looked forward to reading my work when I eventually became a published author, and I wore her praise like a badge of honor. I was so proud of myself and of my writing. It was something that I was good at, and I cherished it.
And then, somewhere along the line, something changed. I stopped writing just for the sake of writing. I abandoned my little projects along with my notebook of ideas. I still had ideas, of course, but I would quickly forget them after more pressing thoughts pushed their way to the forefront. I think this change happened when I was told that I needed to stop being creative and focus more on churning out things that would get me good grades. Everything I wrote followed the same bland structure of “exciting” introductory paragraph, explanatory body, and conclusion. It was simple, and it worked. My essays followed guidelines meticulously, never falling out of line but never trying my hardest either. I, and my writing by extension, existed in this mediocre limbo. Sure, I occasionally got to diversify with my writing, but it was never consistent. During my junior year, I became obsessed with poetry and, more specifically, spoken word poetry. So, I tried my hand at writing a poem. It was, in a word, “angsty.” I wrote about a person that I liked who was probably never going to like me back, and I wrote it at two in the morning on the notes app on my phone. It was extremely informal and not the greatest piece of poetry ever written, but I still loved it. I loved being able to write about my feelings so openly, and it gave me a sense of freedom that I could never accomplish with academic writing. And so I continued to write. I wrote to comprehend, to vent, to give voice to my private thoughts. My poems will probably continue to be manifestations of my innermost feelings and will never be seen by another person, but I adore writing them all the same.
In high school, I was also exposed to another genre of creative writing: fanfiction. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I was a bit apprehensive of the medium at first. But, after digging around for a bit, I found well-written and beautiful works of fiction. These authors can create entire worlds with their writing, even if they are using someone else’s characters. They write novel-length stories that have made me laugh, cry, and question my place in the universe; they are worthy of any and all praise given to them. And, they do it all out of love for their fandom and their love of writing. The authors will always include notes that say how their writing is an outlet for them, how they really do appreciate the notes on their writing, how they always try to bring something new to the table. I think that it’s these amateur writers and their drive to create that has inspired me to try and write more. I think I’ve done more writing at Kenyon, creative and academic, than I have in the past couple of years. I’m writing essays for my classes and articles for Her Campus, and I’m also working on a short novel. Even though it’s a lot of work, I couldn’t be happier, because I love to write. It gives me a way to sort out my feelings while producing something that I think is worthwhile and beautiful. I don’t know if I’ll ever be the author that my teacher prophesied me to be, but I will forever and always treasure the gift of creative writing.