Archives for posts with tag: write

There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

-Ernest Hemingway

I am entering this blog entry into a contest by Positive Writer called “You are a Writer.”Image

 

I began writing when I was eleven years old and at that time I didn’t even consider it a hobby of mine. I was a bit smart for my age so I’d actually skipped a grade and was in a class where I was the youngest. It wasn’t difficult making friends but I still didn’t necessarily fit in. I wasn’t a big fan of television or movies (always preferred books), I didn’t listen to their type of music and so the only thing I really had in common with them was the fact that we were in the same class. Another thing was I looked different and I was often teased for my mixed heritage and I still am, considering I grew up in a predominantly black community. Even at home my parents were always arguing so eventually it felt like I was raising myself because they were too busy with their own issues to worry about mine; as far as they were concerned, I was a smart girl and didn’t need their help. My mother used to get upset with me a lot for the most trivial things and at one point she told me I wasn’t and would never be her friend. It was probably the most emotionally scarring moment of my childhood but it had an upside because that’s when I began writing poems about how I felt since I didn’t have anyone to tell. After that I became sort of emotionally dormant and withdrawn from my family but after a while I decided I didn’t want anyone to worry about me so I developed a façade of happiness.

The twist in my sad tale was when my mother read a poem at the back of my notebook and showed it to her friend who was an editor.  I remember her coming home so ecstatic because her friend told her that she spotted talent in my work and she began encouraging me to write. I felt so great because for once I felt like I was doing something she liked. So I wrote more and more, always trying to improve so I could always have that approval that I’d always wanted from my mother. Finally I decided ‘What the heck, why not enter a competition?’ so that’s exactly what I did and when my mom’s editor-friend read my entry and she offered me an internship at the local newspaper office. I went home that day; lay in my bed thinking ‘Hey I can actually make something of this writing thing!’ and so I stopped writing for approval (my mom never cared to read any of my stuff anyway!) and returned to writing for me and only for me. That’s when I had an idea I wanted to be a writer and that light bulb changed my life for good. I later found out that there was an Poetry Open-Mic near me and there I met the most accepting and friendly poets, writers, bloggers, songwriters and artists who were all soon to be my friends and it was probably the best day of my life. In a span of two weeks I discovered something I really loved and met people I adored and that was how I knew writing would always make me happy, no matter what. I even won a local competition for my poetry and one of my short stories (Got my name on a plaque!) and at that moment it was set in stone for me. I was a write

Believe me, about every three weeks you’d be sure to hear me whining that I’d never write another word again but sure enough the next day I’d be scribbling away in one of my notebooks. Writing truly means so much to me because trust me, after four years of depression and a dysfunctional family (it’s definitely getting better, though!), you tend to cling to really makes you happy. As Alice Walker said, ‘Don’t wait around for other people to be happy for you.  Any happiness you get, you have got to make yourself.’  That is exactly what I do every time I write something new, I’m making myself happy.

My pulse races with time,

A quick, exhilarating marathon.

The razor’s edge does not speak for itself,

For the wound is its witness.

Repulsive,

Bloody

Infliction.

Every pen is a sword in its own right,

And to write is to duel with the mind.

 

I gave this piece to my friend to read and she pulled me aside and asked,’ Are you thinking of cutting, are you okay?’ I found this funny because when I was writing this, self harm didn’t even cross my mind. Disclaimer: This has nothing to do self harm or blood or razors (well, at least not intentionally 🙂