CREDIT
I am Sherlocked
Nicole |16 | Poet | Vlogger

listen: there’s a hell
of a good universe next door; let’s go



Currently Reading:

Math Girls
by Hiroshi Yuki

Myself As A Writer

For Writing Enrichment, we have to write about ourselves and our writing. This is the self finished copy, meaning that it hasn’t been peer edited yet. I’m getting my class to edit it, but if you have ANY critique at all, good or bad, please share. :)

When people think of writing, they think of two main things. They remember that magnificent book they read last week or the essay they had to write for Social Studies. You don’t find many people who enjoy both of those, but perhaps I, Nicole *last name*, obsessed with commas, am the exception. Creating characters, back stories, and conflicts is exhilarating. Taking known information and being able to string it together as I wish is as well. However, passion is not always matched with talent. That is what is blocking me from thinking of myself as a writer. For the time being, I only see myself as a person who creates concepts and inspires others.

Writing not only produces a final result, but an emotion as well. That feeling is what I love most in the world. It starts with a spark. The ideas flow in my head as words flood on to the page, the occasional pause occurring to give my hand a rest. I refuse to stop until I am done and the page is covered with eraser shavings. But then I read it over. Every word I chose to every choppy sentence makes me want to tear it all apart and scream. I am almost never satisfied with my writing. To my messed up, judgmental mind, my own work should only be considered writing if it is brilliant. The concepts could have been created by a genius, but the writing it pathetic.

Not many people surround themselves in an environment where multiple suicide notes can be found daily, but I don’t mind that. Transferring others’ desperation into happiness is what makes me write. One morning at 2am, I was haunted with the idea of my best friend Carly ending her life. I finally stood up and constructed what I would say if she called me, sobbing with pills in her hand. I wrote what would become my best writing, a five paragraph essay called Ripping Pages. It was a comparison between a book and life, and how neither should end at the unfortunate, climactic middle. Sharing that with people and acquiring knowledge that I have helped even one person is mind-blowing makes me sob. I write inspirational pieces to help myself as well, even if my actions do not always reflect my true thoughts. While ideas I write about may stick with me for only a few moments, if others get something out of it, that is enough to make me need to write.

I truly do love writing. I love the feeling, the results, the actions, and the environment around it. I simply don’t consider myself a part of that environment of intelligence, eloquence, and talent. Maybe it’s time to hand over my concepts and leave the inspiring to someone else. But I’m not giving up just yet. I will become a writer. I will be proud of my writing and its effects. This may not happen tomorrow, but knowing that it will keeps me going.

Oct 04th / 18 notes