An Essay
This is an essay I wrote for school around the middle of September. (The 19th, actually. Yeah, I keep track of stuff like that. Heh.) It's about writing! Hee. Unedited, though. Gotta get to that. Yeah... Anyway, here we go!
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A Pen in my Hand
My greatest happiness lies in the wonder of language. Words are my shield; words are my joy; words are my world. Were it ever up to me, I’d immediately opt for a change of address- leaving the land of the living to dwell in the land of the written. I’d happily traipse along meadows of metaphors- the paper a grassy field and every sentence a rolling hill. Or I would swim in a sea of similes- the words on the creamy paper dripping black as oil with every stroke of my pen. Writing is my purpose; I was born to purchase pens, to fill up notebooks, to wear out the keys of keyboards everywhere. Writing- I was born to write. Nothing gives me greater pleasure, and, as is a favorite saying of mine, there have been times when I’ve written more than I’ve slept- deliberately abstaining from the latter to be able to do more of the former. I’m not an orator, my speaking skills are next to nonexistent; with the written word, all my messages are so much more clear. To make up for my abominably leaden tongue, to tell stories, to give myself some measure of happiness... I write. And always, always, always (my last drop of energy spent lifting my pen for the final time) I shall continue to do just that. Down to my core, I am a writer.
Most people enjoy listening to others speak. Hours can be spent enjoying a nice tale told by the warmth of the fireside, a soothing voice weaving a spoken tapestry with a nimble tongue. Those same people, however, would ask me to stop speaking immediately lest my incoherency and effervescent energy overwhelm them. I was not made for verbal delivery- not even one bone in my body seems to be so inclined. People make me uncomfortable; discomfort makes me tense; tension causes my lips to inexplicably clamp shut and not allow anything more than stuttering dribble to escape them. My brain moves like a carousel at a children’s carnival, spinning from idea to idea, not stopping even when the cotton candy decides to make its triumphant (if somewhat disgusting) return. Because of this (and due in some part to my short attention span- the goldfish and I are both vying for the title), a conversation with me can range anywhere from philosophic ideals to the wonders of the tube sock- yes, in just that one conversation. The only remedy I’ve found (and I’ve tried my share of cures) is actually the simplest one of all: I just have to express myself some other way. Ahh, and what way might that be? The call of creamy paper, the allure of thick ink, the inexorable pull of invisible words- such unavoidable attractions led me to the world of writing. The exchange of vocalized words will be strong suit; writing, for me, is far superior. (And really, why take a Collins if one has found her Darcy?) I cannot remember the exact moment I realized that I was in love with this art, but sentence after sentence I keep coming back, enraptured- and I fulfill this need, story after story, poem after poem, word after word after word.
Even when I was little I was obsessed with the thrill of “once upon a time”. Stories are my life-blood. Should I ever be split open, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if an undiscovered tale or two were found floating in my red-ink filled veins. Give me a Cinderella, an Odysseus, any protagonist at all- this devoted listener will sit for hours should any sort of tale be told. This strange addiction has greatly shaped me; one of the reasons I love to write, in fact, is so I can be the story-teller. Let me regale you; let my words sweep my readers away to far-off lands. There will be an adventure, a journey, a love that transcends time- it will catch you; it will be a story in every respect. Poetry is a noble art form, difficult and concise and... well, poetic. But to me, poetry is for ideas: the abstract, the mind-tickling, the puzzle piece with the swirly blue and green and bits of indistinct red. I can’t tell a story in a poem- others have this gift, not I. Short stories. Novels. These I shall take- these shall be my mediums for my next great masterpiece. Because when I master the art of story, I will tell a tale that has never been told before.
I like essays. Discussion questions never really bothered me. Why? Because finally my teachers will see that I’m not just a lump of organic goo slumped in the far desk. I shine when I’m writing- my truest self revealed at last, tender and fresh but courageous and ready to take on the world. When life has mistreated me, and everything falls apart, I crawl out from under my trusty rock to retrieve my only solace- a ragged scrap of paper and something to make words appear on it. I am so happy when I write. Finally, I say to myself, I’m succeeding at something! I’m worth something; I can really do this! My soul is flying, I’m soaring, all the passion within me released- and suddenly nothing can bring me down. It’s my story, my purpose- my very life. How could I exist without the power to write? Almost everything I am has been invested into this one, meager talent- and should it ever fail, the girl that these words have helped describe would totally cease to be. This love defies description. This need is undeniable. I never believed that I could feel like that, but when I write I finally know what it’s like to be truly, purely, absolutely happy. And I wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world.
When people ask me where I get the inspiration to write so much so often, I only offer a secret little smile. “My muse,” I might say with a shrug, all the while trying to hold back laughter. What exactly is my muse, the very curious may dare to ask? Why, the rarely-sober detective that lives in the office with the locked filing cabinet in my mind. That usually amuses them. (However, finding out that I’ve given him an actual name and solid personality seems to make them a little wary of me. Clementine McGuire is far too helpful to just forget about,) I can’t help it- I overflow with imagination. I simply have to have an outlet- and since my mouth certainly isn’t up for the job, I turn to my hand instead. I spew out tons of wordy discharge, page upon page of whatever is my whim. I say that not to boast- my prowess as a writer is certainly still in the beginning stages. It’s mere honesty, and an excellent way to practice. Even the best need practice, and I’m in no way too arrogant to think I’m one of the best. I just exist in my own happy writing sphere, telling tales and spinning stories. Whether it’s writing the seven sin-based letters in “In Turmoil”, or giving Dell (my most beloved character) another witty remark in my “GCS”, or even just working on a project for school, writing is what I was born to do. And, since I’m in desperate need of re-affirming such a controversial fact (Born? Was I really?), I must retire to my notebook to squeeze out more of those creative juices. Clementine has just gotten another case, and I am at the mercy of my muse. Look at those file cabinets one day, and in silver lettering they will most certainly read: “Hannah- of the Writer’s Persuasion”.
*****************************************
Oh yeah. I LOVE to write. Hee.
-hj
(Even losers can get lucky sometimes.)
*********************
A Pen in my Hand
My greatest happiness lies in the wonder of language. Words are my shield; words are my joy; words are my world. Were it ever up to me, I’d immediately opt for a change of address- leaving the land of the living to dwell in the land of the written. I’d happily traipse along meadows of metaphors- the paper a grassy field and every sentence a rolling hill. Or I would swim in a sea of similes- the words on the creamy paper dripping black as oil with every stroke of my pen. Writing is my purpose; I was born to purchase pens, to fill up notebooks, to wear out the keys of keyboards everywhere. Writing- I was born to write. Nothing gives me greater pleasure, and, as is a favorite saying of mine, there have been times when I’ve written more than I’ve slept- deliberately abstaining from the latter to be able to do more of the former. I’m not an orator, my speaking skills are next to nonexistent; with the written word, all my messages are so much more clear. To make up for my abominably leaden tongue, to tell stories, to give myself some measure of happiness... I write. And always, always, always (my last drop of energy spent lifting my pen for the final time) I shall continue to do just that. Down to my core, I am a writer.
Most people enjoy listening to others speak. Hours can be spent enjoying a nice tale told by the warmth of the fireside, a soothing voice weaving a spoken tapestry with a nimble tongue. Those same people, however, would ask me to stop speaking immediately lest my incoherency and effervescent energy overwhelm them. I was not made for verbal delivery- not even one bone in my body seems to be so inclined. People make me uncomfortable; discomfort makes me tense; tension causes my lips to inexplicably clamp shut and not allow anything more than stuttering dribble to escape them. My brain moves like a carousel at a children’s carnival, spinning from idea to idea, not stopping even when the cotton candy decides to make its triumphant (if somewhat disgusting) return. Because of this (and due in some part to my short attention span- the goldfish and I are both vying for the title), a conversation with me can range anywhere from philosophic ideals to the wonders of the tube sock- yes, in just that one conversation. The only remedy I’ve found (and I’ve tried my share of cures) is actually the simplest one of all: I just have to express myself some other way. Ahh, and what way might that be? The call of creamy paper, the allure of thick ink, the inexorable pull of invisible words- such unavoidable attractions led me to the world of writing. The exchange of vocalized words will be strong suit; writing, for me, is far superior. (And really, why take a Collins if one has found her Darcy?) I cannot remember the exact moment I realized that I was in love with this art, but sentence after sentence I keep coming back, enraptured- and I fulfill this need, story after story, poem after poem, word after word after word.
Even when I was little I was obsessed with the thrill of “once upon a time”. Stories are my life-blood. Should I ever be split open, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if an undiscovered tale or two were found floating in my red-ink filled veins. Give me a Cinderella, an Odysseus, any protagonist at all- this devoted listener will sit for hours should any sort of tale be told. This strange addiction has greatly shaped me; one of the reasons I love to write, in fact, is so I can be the story-teller. Let me regale you; let my words sweep my readers away to far-off lands. There will be an adventure, a journey, a love that transcends time- it will catch you; it will be a story in every respect. Poetry is a noble art form, difficult and concise and... well, poetic. But to me, poetry is for ideas: the abstract, the mind-tickling, the puzzle piece with the swirly blue and green and bits of indistinct red. I can’t tell a story in a poem- others have this gift, not I. Short stories. Novels. These I shall take- these shall be my mediums for my next great masterpiece. Because when I master the art of story, I will tell a tale that has never been told before.
I like essays. Discussion questions never really bothered me. Why? Because finally my teachers will see that I’m not just a lump of organic goo slumped in the far desk. I shine when I’m writing- my truest self revealed at last, tender and fresh but courageous and ready to take on the world. When life has mistreated me, and everything falls apart, I crawl out from under my trusty rock to retrieve my only solace- a ragged scrap of paper and something to make words appear on it. I am so happy when I write. Finally, I say to myself, I’m succeeding at something! I’m worth something; I can really do this! My soul is flying, I’m soaring, all the passion within me released- and suddenly nothing can bring me down. It’s my story, my purpose- my very life. How could I exist without the power to write? Almost everything I am has been invested into this one, meager talent- and should it ever fail, the girl that these words have helped describe would totally cease to be. This love defies description. This need is undeniable. I never believed that I could feel like that, but when I write I finally know what it’s like to be truly, purely, absolutely happy. And I wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world.
When people ask me where I get the inspiration to write so much so often, I only offer a secret little smile. “My muse,” I might say with a shrug, all the while trying to hold back laughter. What exactly is my muse, the very curious may dare to ask? Why, the rarely-sober detective that lives in the office with the locked filing cabinet in my mind. That usually amuses them. (However, finding out that I’ve given him an actual name and solid personality seems to make them a little wary of me. Clementine McGuire is far too helpful to just forget about,) I can’t help it- I overflow with imagination. I simply have to have an outlet- and since my mouth certainly isn’t up for the job, I turn to my hand instead. I spew out tons of wordy discharge, page upon page of whatever is my whim. I say that not to boast- my prowess as a writer is certainly still in the beginning stages. It’s mere honesty, and an excellent way to practice. Even the best need practice, and I’m in no way too arrogant to think I’m one of the best. I just exist in my own happy writing sphere, telling tales and spinning stories. Whether it’s writing the seven sin-based letters in “In Turmoil”, or giving Dell (my most beloved character) another witty remark in my “GCS”, or even just working on a project for school, writing is what I was born to do. And, since I’m in desperate need of re-affirming such a controversial fact (Born? Was I really?), I must retire to my notebook to squeeze out more of those creative juices. Clementine has just gotten another case, and I am at the mercy of my muse. Look at those file cabinets one day, and in silver lettering they will most certainly read: “Hannah- of the Writer’s Persuasion”.
*****************************************
Oh yeah. I LOVE to write. Hee.
-hj
(Even losers can get lucky sometimes.)