My writing life not only exists outside of my schoolwork, but it often flourishes there when inspiration strikes and my favorite ball-point pen is forced and a mixture of cursive and standard handwriting is strewn across the page like spilled coffee. Words that litter my mind do not necessarily reach the page, as something is lost in the translation between my brain and my fingertips, but the soft classical renditions of my favorite songs playing in the background influence me and drive me further. The scent of coffee diffusing in my room and putting me entirely at ease can do nothing but fuel my inspiration and bring my mind to a focal point.
However, with my deep-seated insecurities, my literary work is often shown only to one person unless it’s ordered that I force my penmanship upon others for a class exercise such as this one. I would love to expand my writing life because when the pen stops or that last key is pressed, a feeling of satisfaction washes over me and I realize that I have done it. I have created something with my own hands that can convey emotion to others, and I desperately wish to be heard despite having nothing to say. I am an artist, and when I cannot create works of beauty with brush strokes, I know that my pen is by my side and cannot abandon me the way an artist’s muse can. Maybe that’s why I like to work in ink, because the stain of the paper is permanent despite the imperfections.
I am not a hero, marked for greatness by the scars of my past, but I can create people who are. Imperfections in characters, and imperfections in my own character inspire me to write works of fiction more often than not. I grew up reading fiction novels, much like any teenager this day in age with their Harry Potter and Eragon series making memorable marks on their childhood. Darren Shan was my favorite author in middle school and I think he personally fueled my morbid curiosity with the darker sides of fiction, and I would love nothing more than to expand my horizons and write like he does.