I’m a writer. That feels good to say. It’s like I have a purpose, a drive, an identity. I’m one of those people who carries around a journal and writes catchphrases throughout the day on monogrammed, leatherbound stationary. I sit in dimly lit rooms with classical music playing and wear my hair in buns kept together by a Ticonderoga #2. I drink coffee black and only speak in philosophical quotes. I am witty, and sharp and can carry on conversations regarding politics, religion, cleft lip surgeries performed on orphans, and the economy. I know exactly what to say and how I want to say it. I specialize in semicolons and oxford commas. I knew MLA format before I knew my address. I am a writer for God’s sake.
Wrong.Wrong. Wrongwrongwrong. Really Wrong. Wrong. SO wrong. WRONG.
You want to know what it really means to be a writer? Honestly?
Well I’m a writer. So that means when I’m asked what I want to do with the rest of my life, (on those random days when my mouth answers without telling my mind what it’s gonna say) I am answered back with “oh well ya know journalism’s a dying field. Newspapers are almost obsolete.” (Oh thanks, dream crusher!) I’ll have bursts of creativity throughout the day, and unless I start writing immediately in the notes section of my iPhone, those thoughts are sent to live on the island of Nobel Prize Winners That Could’ve Been. (Do they even give Nobel Prizes for 500 word articles on the struggles of a twenty-year-old white girl living in suburbia?) Anyways. I digress. See that’s the other thing about being a writer. You digress. A lot.
Your mind hops, skips and jumps to pop every thought bubble it’s ever dreamed up. Like now, writing this article. I was in the middle of writing another piece and stopped mid paragraph because the idea of writing a Her Campus article about how it feels to be a writer came into mind and it wouldn’t go away until I x’d out of that Google Doc and opened a blank one. Was that a run-on? Sometimes, ya know being a writer, I like to break grammar rules. It’s like a secret code that writers know you’re allowed to break (some of) them, but the rest of the world doesn’t and they think you’re crazy but also really cool. Another digression. (See that was a fragment, but I’m allowed to do it.)
Sometimes I have ideas that I really, really want to write but can’t actually force myself to sit down at a computer, or with a piece of paper, or even with my phone, and crank out. It happens. It’s all part of the process. Process. I don’t really know that I have a process of writing. I think my process is that I don’t have a process. As far back as fourth grade, I can remember filling out “four squares” before writing an essay about pets, and vacations, and sleepovers at my grandma’s house. I never really needed the four square though. I had the paragraphs floating in my head, the four square was just a formality so I could get a “check plus” from my teacher when I handed in my final draft, along with all other drafts stapled in order behind it, of course.
I don’t need a specific ambiance when I write. The coffee shops and dimly lit offices are nonsense. I write in the backseat of my mom’s van. I write when I bring my phone (with its #lifeproof case) into the bubble bath. I write when it’s rainy, or snowy, or sunny. I write at one in the morning, when one of those thought bubbles is keeping me up at night– typing ever so lightly so I don’t wake up my roommate. I write when I have an episode of Grey’s Anatomy minimized on the screen. I write while listening to music. I write in dead silence. I write during class. I write in the dining hall. I write at a desk. I write.
I can’t look at people while they’re reading things I write. I leave the room most of the time. Unless of course I read it out loud, ensuring they understand my tone. I don’t know if it’s being a writer or being myself, maybe those two are married together at this point, but I always feel the need to correct people’s grammar. And if I don’t know them well enough to say it mid conversation, it’s guaranteed I’m thinking about it in my head. Sorry. I put a lot of thought into birthday cards, thank you notes, and most importantly, Instagram captions. Every word has a purpose and a place and my job is to find it. Emoji’s too.
So I’m a writer. I write. Words are written by me. I write so I can laugh. I write to express emotion. I write to complain and to compliment and to correct. I write for satisfaction and for gratification. I write to make others feel good, and to feel good about myself. In my writing I’ve found a voice. I know what I care about, whom I care about, and why it is I really care at all.
Photo provided by the author
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