“Writing” is a verb, a noun, an adjective in the form of a present participle. When you’ve got a word so versatile, it’s hard to believe its meaning can be limited to fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, don’t you think?
I’m not a shy person, but I’m slow to share in front of a crowd. I’m the daughter of two mathematicians, but numbers and variables never resonated with me the way that the dictionary did. In the drawers under my desk, you’ll find diary entries from when I was six years old, littered with unfinished songs I never had the guts to perform. My voice is loud, my speech is abrasive, you would never think of me as a sensitive soul. It’s only in the last few days that some strangers on the internet have taken notice.
Letting people read your writing is arguably more intimate than letting them see you naked; there’s something about reading another person’s thoughts that makes you believe you know them past their skin. Not even my closest friends have read anything that I’ve written less academic than an essay. I entered a piece into the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition, won a gold key, and never told a soul. I put all of my work on a website under a domain that doesn’t exist in the databases of search engines. Until this past week, it never received a single view.
When I decided to publish work on Write the World, I expected that it’d exist but go unnoticed, nothing I wasn’t used to. Instead, I was bombarded with enthusiasm and support from people with peculiar aliases and colorful profile pictures. It was almost overwhelming, the influx of reactions that I’d been hiding from since the day I picked up a pencil. My filled notebooks never leave my desk drawer, the writing I’m proudest of goes into a virtual treasure chest, tucked away to go unseen. Being here, writing daily, actively asking for reviews, for people to delve into my soul, it’s a lot to take in. I’ll admit that I’m wary of strangers; I watched the movie “Cyberbully” in middle school. That said, the Q&As and the conversational messages I came across left the impression that it wouldn’t be so bad if I let other humans read what I had to write.
What’s the harm in social posts when we're already revealing our most personal feelings, our darkest secrets, and our sharpest edges through our writing? I am so grateful that something like this exists, I want to grow and learn from this community. By letting you read my work, I’m telling you the most profound, private information I have to offer, but sometimes I also just want to talk.
I'm so new to this website that I've hardly had time to figure everything out, but Write the World has given me the unique opportunity to connect with other young writers on a personal level. I don't want a watered down version of "connection."