I’m not that great at anything. If people were cupcakes, I’d be vanilla buttercream: sweet enough but nobody’s favorite. And I hate cupcakes, so take that analogy as you will.
Words crash into my fieldview and flow out just as fast, as I trace the metal spiral on my notebook with my left hand, furiously scribbling with my right.
I build scenes I can never physically attend and push myself into them on paper. I type as if I’m chasing a due date, my many years of being not-that-great at the piano coming in handy as I string beads and tie knots with my sentences.
In person, I never know how to fill silence. When I was little I got made fun of for being too loud and too weird, so I’ve been conscious of not seeming overzealous ever since. I don’t really share that kind of stuff, not even with the best people in my life; it seems my diary entries speak volumes that my vocal cords cannot. Perhaps they are in octaves too profound for my range to produce.
And I have no clue where I got it considering my mama and my baba speak English as a second language and groomed me to match Newton and Descartes. Instead I surround myself with Dickinson and Hemingway, always delighted to come up with a phrase that is particularly clever. It’s not topology, but you can’t say I’m not an abstract thinker.
English class in school consists of lacrosse players goofing off instead of reading Macbeth, so in the meantime I write poems from my seat by the window and I think about all the things I would say to them if my pen was where my mouth was.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not so much that I’m one-dimensional, but that I become thoroughly fluorescent and textured and real when I write. Ideas come to me in the middle of the night and I scribble them onto Post-it notes in fear that I will lose them. I forget all about my qualms with not-that-greatness.
I cover pages with my feelings and my thoughts on moments I have never actually lived despite feeling deeply connected to each segment of the plot.
Who knows where I’m going with this? I think it’s a round-trip anyway.
I know I’ve said all this but I could tell you everything in one line: I really, really, really love to write.
I’ve found that I latch onto comments and feedback and that I quickly fall in love with people I hardly know. I read earth-shattering pieces and when I’m reminded that the authors are teenagers I think to myself, every single time: this generation is going to change the world.
I told you my story, you tell me yours. Why do you write?