After discussion with my friend Tori this week, I have realized that I kind of… like writing? Reading and writing go hand in hand, yet why does the notion of liking writing scare me? I think it is because upon telling anyone you like to write, some of the immediate next questions include what type of writing and if they could read some of your work which I am not prepared to answer.
My first dabble with creative writing outside of class can only best be described as smut-lite roleplay with my middle school friends. I enjoyed the creative freedom and was unafraid of my friends reading my work, because we were all being vulnerable and writing about characters- it didn’t reflect on myself, right? Besides this, I also regularly wrote (and still write) book reviews on Goodreads (and have progressed to restaurant reviews now that I unfortunately read less) which I've published here on this blog, but I figured I only wrote them so my voice could be heard, so that I could a reward a book I enjoyed or punish an author for wasting my time (I had less than 100 friends/followers).
In high school, my writing mainly consisted of essays about novels. Despite their more rigid structure, I enjoyed doing a deeper analysis and that there was no wrong interpretation of writing. Maybe I should have seen my writing potential when I won the English Award from my teacher in 10th grade (beating my friend who was undoubtedly the best writer and won the 9th grade award, to my amazement and her dismay; I still regret getting that award despite having no control over receiving it, because I believe she should have gotten it), but I had (and still have) imposter syndrome and figured my teacher did not want to award the same student twice in a row.
In college and medical school, my writing evolved into scientific lab reports or patient notes – very titillating! I was also introduced to personal statements (quite literally my worst enemy) where I was to summarize and sell myself to an unknown reader in one page. During this time, I could not push the boundaries or write freely since my writing was centered around someone’s judgment, grading, or my acceptance into school. So, I grew to hate writing (I also wanted to fit in with my classmates – who likes writing papers?). I declared myself A Bad Writer given the lack of personal remarks on my essays by my professors or school admissions committees and that my writing was nowhere on the level of my peers’, glimpses of which of which I read in the school newspaper or while reviewing their essays. I convinced myself that because my writing was inadequate and I hated writing, not only was I a Bad Writer, I simply wasn’t A Writer. That title was reserved for good writers like authors of published essays or those who would be novelists someday.
However, during this time, whenever I had an emotion to work through or a thought I was confused by, I turned to journaling in the nearest notebook (I have amassed innumerable notebooks with unpredictable entry dates). Writing in a diary was something a kid did, and my journaling format was stream of consciousness, so it wasn’t “real” writing, right? Writing had structure and was something you felt comfortable sharing with others, and all of this was private.
Very recently, I claimed to my friend that I didn’t write. But as I start to blog and test the limits of my writing, I now realize that is a lie, I am a writer! Even a texter is a writer. In my case, I’ve been writing my whole life and can say I enjoy it (I love texting, I love reviewing, I love journaling, I love blogging).
I conclude this thanking you for reading this and my friend Tori for reading my writing through its evolutions (particularly my personal statements and my newsletters) and helping me regain my love and my confidence in my writing, which I hope to continue even when my leisure time inevitably shrinks.
Jennifer
