I’ve always wanted to write. Growing up at any point in time you could find a stack of notebooks in a corner of my room with my imaginings, attempts at doodling, and abandoned fiction novels. But, as it would have it I suppose the enormity of writing kept me from finishing anything. I was an orator. When I spoke publicly I could channel my passion – what some now have come to call my ‘latin spice’- and like hitching a car to rocket I would be off in a whirlwind of words that faded into my minds eye and found themselves leaving my tongue. Speaking for me was a spiritual experience, sometimes it still is. Sometimes the twenty-something introspection and consequential insecurity will erode what used to be my travels within verbosity.
Things changed for me my senior year of high school. I enrolled in an AP language and composition course. A fantastic teacher, Higgins never just taught to the test. He exposed us to the world of non-fiction creation, to creative writing, to short pieces, to Sherman Alexie, to Susan Sontag. We read pieces that put another side of the world into view, pieces that were raw in their anger, littered in hopelessness, braving in optimism – I learned how writing can encapsulate the range of the human experience in a way that was for me unprecedented. It was like the grown-up Are You There God it’s Me, Margaret? And so Higgins also had us try our hand at writing, emulating the style of whatever author we had just read. I found out, I was pretty good. It was cathartic, and frustrating, and exhilarating, and humbling, and terrifying to get some of those words out. And the more I did, the more I put myself on paper, the more I understood myself off paper.
“If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer inside of me, / threatening the life it belongs to”
But journaling. I tried journaling all my life, all to no avail. There’s a ruggedness to journaling that in theory is so incredibly appealing: the ability to just say what you feel. It can be ugly and unrefined. You can write FUCK in all caps after a breakup. Fill the page with rants. Worry not about what someone who will read it will say but instead that you haven’t said enough about all those things the person who will never read it doesn’t suspect. But in the inevitable clandestine fate of that journal – so personal and betrothed to you and only you – is a disappointment that no one will see it. Because, I thought to myself, if no one sees it… does it make a sound?
There is a certain furlough when you write what you feel, leave your soul on a page and instead of archiving it in your inner depths you put it out into the world. Maybe to me it’s because then, it feels like a part of me is in the world. See I’ve always thirsted to be known, to be heard. Call it hubris (which operates in a deadly balance with that twenty-something insecurity I spoke of earlier). And I suppose that brings me to why I decides to take arms and start this blog. In part it fulfills this fantasy to be heard (my own soapbox in a hidden corner of cyberspace) and in a larger part it allows me to explore myself in a way that I did in that AP Comp class in high school.
Approaching the summation of my college career, I find myself at this equinoctial point in which I’m looking backwards and peeking-on-my-toes forward just wondering – what the hell happened and what do I do know? So this, this is my attempt to make sense of that equinox, and perhaps even manage to piece myself together in the process.