Writing as an act of perseverance

On why I write

As a child, writing came easy for me. I was not particularly creative, but I had a good grasp of the English language. What I lacked in flair and originality I could fill with cohesive sentences, paragraphs with a central thought, and essays with a beginning, middle, and end. I was editor-in-chief of the school newspaper by the end of both elementary and high school, despite not being the best writer in my class.

If there was a title I would’ve claimed for myself at the time, it would’ve been best reader. Reading was easy for me too. Unlike writing, I worked hard to develop this skill—I read across various genres, scoped out new titles from the library, and looked up comprehensive reviews of the books I had just finished. It wasn’t unusual to see me carrying a book around campus or even reading during class.

Amazing writers are always skilled readers. But not all readers can be writers, especially not great ones. As a teen, I didn’t have the maturity to accept that I was a mediocre writer despite my proficiency in a discipline that writing shares a symbiotic relationship with.

That realization came during my first year in university. I enrolled in a literature course (reading, check!) and thought I should join a prestigious writing organization in my college. It had a stringent application process, of course. Looking back, I have no idea why I signed on for the poetry track (all I could write back then were shitty three-stanza poems that were published in the school newspaper just because we had space to fill). I got paired with an upperclassman mentor, and we were supposed to critique each other’s works. He led me out of the room after he asked for comments on his suite and I said something that made it clear it all flew over my head. Speaking quietly, he explained the project. I nodded and thought to myself, "Wow, I just gave this Serious Poet a suite of crappy poetry." How embarrassing.

I didn’t get into the writing club, a decision that came as no surprise to me or anybody else in that organization. High school friends who were in the same university too were shocked, though. I made excuses for myself, which they accepted. But the truth is I wasn’t a good enough writer. It was that simple.

The president of the writing organization, when she told me of my rejection, commended me for not crying or complaining about their decision. She said, “Most people don’t like being told they’re not good writers.” I took that to heart. I may not be the best writer, but I’m honest about it. I’ve accepted it.

And that didn’t stop me from writing. Instead, I pivoted. I wasn’t creative enough for poetry, so I wrote short personal essays and book reviews. I tried my hand at film writing, but a professional mentor at my old film job (a National Artist!) criticized my work in front of most of my colleagues, so I let it go.

I focused on marketing copies, short little musings, and even financial news.

Still, these detours have stifled my writing voice. Since much of what I’ve written recently has been for work, I have had to adopt different practices. My own style—if it even exists—has taken a backseat. I haven’t had a lot of time to unleash my creativity, to write for myself. To hear my own voice echo inside the room.

I’m hoping this can be a space to continue trying to be a writer, in whatever form it takes for me.

This is the second part of my introductory articles. Discover how I envision Thoughtstarters here:

See you again next month!

x Raven