On Writing 

The more I think, the more I write. The more I write the more I turn myself inside out trying to understand the things I’m thinking, grasping at concepts and feelings that have passed hoping to make sense of them in lengthy phrases and words. I understand what Rupi Kaur meant when she said she didn’t know if writing was helping or destroying her. Is my writing just overthinking on paper? Is it my way of trying to justify the craziness of my mind; the way the thoughts flow and somehow connect like conspiracy theories, in the most vague and implausible ways?
I get most of my ideas when I’m walking alone, to and from classes. I might notice something and let my mind go off on a tangent about being human. The concept of living and being are by far my favorite to write about anyway. I sometimes feel like a scientist, recording data about a species while hiding in bushes or trees, hidden from view.

The more I people-watch the more I think. The more I understand and the more I create. The joys of human interaction never fail to amaze me.

I love fabricating stories in my mind about how people got to where they are. What are they thinking? What are they feeling? What do they want to do, to be, or to create? It takes me outside of myself, even just for a moment, and gives me a break from reality.

I think one of the saddest parts of the human experience is that we will only ever get to live one life. We will only ever get to be one person. I will only ever be Emily. But this, again, is where writing comes in.

 

When I write, I can imagine what it would be like to be the type of person who loves waking up early and exercising, even though I do not. I can imagine what it must feel like to come home to a family after a long day of work and be so filled with joy that all the stress melts away. I can imagine what it would be like to be pursuing a passion which lights up every fibre of your being.

I write so I can live a different life. Every time I sit down at my desk, I enter my writing world. I let my mind drift and my fingers type out the thoughts I have trouble otherwise expressing. I can indulge and overthink to my hearts content.

My entire life, I have had a habit of internally narrating everything I do. I would narrate my life the way I imagined it would be written in a book, especially during long car rides. I wrote stories in my head about families and the interconnection of their lives. My love of writing stemmed from my love of daydreaming.

In high school, I felt defeated when my writing was criticized. I didn’t like the fact that I couldn’t write what the examiners were looking for, or figure out why they couldn’t follow where my thoughts were going. In college, I took a class I expected to hate; English 001. I dreaded the thought of pouring myself out onto a page for a professor to read. I didn’t like the idea of my thoughts being critiqued, again.

I was so pleasantly surprised when my english class was actually enjoyable. I was exposed to one of my now-favorite writers, David Sedaris, and wrote papers I loved and enjoyed writing.

I never would have predicted at the end of my high school career that I would be minoring in writing, something I felt I was terrible at, purely because I didn’t meet the expectations of a close-minded examiner.tumblr_ofvqyyE1DN1qhm92to1_500.jpg

The moral of this long-winded and confusing rant is that writing and english shouldn’t be confined to one small box. I think english classes often do a disservice to the beauty that comes from loving reading and writing. I had initially written off the concept of ever writing for fun, but I am so happy that I gave it a second chance.

 

 


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