I was a blissful fool until I stepped into Mrs. Short’s AP Language and Composition class. Before that grim realization, I was convinced I was of Orwellian brilliance. Like the master himself, I was nine when I knew that the blood of a wordsmith ran inside me.  Mrs. Sessa, my third grade teacher, was astounded that I used the word “snickering” to describe the laughter of a fictional character I had created. Ever since then I’ve felt an unhealthy pride when I used precocious words and whirlwind sentences. Every piece of writing I churned out was a masterpiece as soon as I laid my pencil down. “Read over it,” Mrs. Sessa advised the class. “No thank you,” I thought smugly to myself, “this is gold.” I developed a dangerous ego.  I never re-read or revised because I hardly made mistakes. As I entered middle school, I didn’t feel quite as immune to error and sometimes did one glance-over before handing in an assignment. I still, however, completed timed writing assignment or important essays without a flutter in my stomach or a shadow of a doubt in my mind.

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That was until 2011 when I handed in my first writing assignment to Mrs. Short. I had received a meager check; other students in my class had an affirmative little “+” next to their check marks. My check mark was lonely and drooped in defeat. The next few assignments I received mediocre grades, nothing so bad that I was spurred me into action, but nothing that made me want to stealthily leave my paper facing up so my neighbors’ wandering eyes could see my grade. We read books I had absolutely no interest in like “The Heart of Darkness” and “Into the Wild.” My passion for English class withered until it resembled the tired pages of the used books that knocked around in my backpack until ninth period every day. I attributed my lackluster grades to Mrs. Short’s harsh grading and demeanor. She was an intimidating presence. Her command of the classroom was not a large or boisterous one: she held a firm, but quietly piercing authority over her students. I was discouraged but I accepted my fate as a B student under Mrs. Short’s captainship, convinced that my writing was as good as it was going to get.

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It turned out that the mediocrity of my junior year was no fluke. Mr. Edmindster, my senior year AP Literature and Composition teacher, bestowed upon me equally unimpressive grades.  I finally faced the hostile truth that it must’ve been me. The problem was me. Mr. Edmindster laid the proverbial straw. I eventually lost my passion for writing because I stopped getting good grades and praise. All my life writing had been easy and rewarding. Now, I was turning in assignments I had written hastily the night before and reviewed solely for typos. A part of me knew I should try harder but I wasn’t accustomed to working towards good writing.  I was a fool. And after those final two years of high school I had lost not only my confidence, but also my passion.

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The next chapter of my life brought The University of Michigan and my English 124 freshman requirement.  At that point, I felt like a washed up pro athlete, one that had stayed in the big leagues too long past her prime. I should’ve quit while I was on top, but here I was, still nostalgic for the days when I loved writing and it loved me back. I was fully prepared for this class to be another dreadful English class in which I wrote essays examining books I didn’t care for. But a curious thing happened. I rediscovered the magic of writing.

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It was one assignment in particular that rekindled my long lost love of composition. My instructor had assigned us to imitate Zadie Smith’s personal essay “A Smith Family Christmas.” We were told to choose a family photograph and reminisce on the moment that photograph was taken.  I chose a photograph of my two brothers and me on the bottom bunk in their bedroom, our new puppy Ruby draped over my lap. As my fingers clicked onto the keyboard I remembered how life with my brothers used to be. We used to be playmates, enemies, co-pilots, partners in crime and the best of friends. Today, however, my brothers and I are three dots spread across a map; our relationship is as distanced as our geographic locations. If I had not sat down and wandered down the dusty corridors of my memory, I would not have realized that I now treat my brothers with a detached indifference. I can’t remember the last time the three of us were genuine company to one another, unencumbered by the inconveniences of our adult lives.

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After I wrote that essay I changed my behavior towards my brothers. I tolerated what usually infuriated me in hopes we could return to the days when it was just the three of us, pure and simple. Taking the time to put those words onto paper changed both my mindset and behavior. I was reminded that writing is more than a mechanical act. That essay allowed me to remember what it felt like to be proud of something I had produced. Not only did this piece of writing give me my confidence back, but also it showed me the power of writing.

           

My freshman seminar forced me into a rigorous revision process. It wasn’t until college that I fully appreciated the power of revising. Phrases like “peer review” used to make me shudder in reluctance. But I realized that generating the thoughts and words of the essay was only the tip of the writing iceberg. Revising allowed me to adopt my roughly cut thoughts and nurture them into something that at first vaguely resembled an academic piece of work. Another round of revision left me with something I might even consider putting my name on. With each read through, with each different color highlighter, with each new peer to review my words, my pride for my work grew and grew.

Part of my revision process is inevitably sending the essay to my mom. I like to show my mom the work I produce, partially as another opinion and set of eyes; but mostly because I want her to hear what I have to say. I find it liberating to convey myself on paper; it’s a different version of me. Yes, my writing has my voice, but I come to realizations and express them in writing that I would not be able to otherwise. I don’t often verbalize my innermost feelings, I think mostly because I do not always know what they are. But when I write, those feelings surface and actualize. It’s important to me that my mother stays in touch with who I am—who I’m becoming—as I sleep 600 miles away from her every night.

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I’m not a terribly introspective person. I saunter through my days enjoying the things that surround me; hardly do I ever look deep into my life and examine myself. However, when I write I am forced to look at my character, my identity. When I write, aspects of me ascend that I was not aware of before. Without a pen in my hand I can’t begin to answer the questions that I have. Writing allows me to dissipate the foggy confusion. I write to examine the concrete parts of me but more importantly I write to discover the liquid, shifting, unknown and buried parts of me. I find the torturous process of writing refreshing and rewarding. Why I write has everything to do with who I am as a person. I write to preserve what comprises me and I write to claim every intangible in-between of my being.

I write for myself. I write to find myself.