Writing Reflection

As a writer, I feel uniquely qualified to answer the question, “How do you write?”, or at least more so than I would have a year ago. Only a year ago – so strange that it moved so quickly. You, Dr. Williams, are already aware of my idealism pertaining to my writing style, how I tended to stray from the question of how I wrote and answered more the question of what I wrote.

I now know I was more of a Connie than I’d have admitted back then. Hadn’t really accepted the fact that I’d grow up eventually. Wanted to be mature, but had no idea of what it would actually take to be mature. Had a vague idea of the sacrifice I’d have to make, had no clue of what I’d give up.

The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that I write more of my awareness than anything else. I love to write about my experiences, but more than that – I like to write about what people can learn from them. I like the “morals” of stories, the “points” of fiction, the summaries of poetry. While I knew I loved the journey of writing, the destination was always more attractive to me – getting to the why of my writing. Yes, you wrote this, but what’s in it for me? Well, reader, you’ll find out if you step in my footprints, disturb the sand with me, look at the horizon past the ocean’s unyielding stare.

I wanted, more than anything, this semester, to understand who I was in relation to other writers. I knew then that I would come to the understanding of who I was in relation to my own self as a writer. But my writing was deeper than that. I delved instantly past the relating portion of the thought process and went straight into the parallelism portion – less of “Oh that applies to me!” and more of “That applies to my writing in XYZ, but not ABC. Here’s the symbolism, here’s the synecdoche.”

In starting this semester I knew I’d have to rely less on my head-voice, spoken with all of the apathy and lethargy of Edward Norton as the narrator in the film adaptation of Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club, and truly understand what it meant to write the words I put on this paper.

But I realized, as I began to write this essay, that maybe writing isn’t about over-analysis. Maybe it’s less about conquest and more about surrender. Perhaps, what I needed to do was understand where I’d come from, as a writer and as a human being, before I could distinctively analyze my writing style. Maybe I needed to feel the words rather than think about them.

It was a strange idea – just get the words on paper? No revisions, no edits? Impossible, they’d say. It can’t be done, they’d say. Watch me, bitch, I’d snarl through gritted teeth. And ever it was, week in and week out. Carefully constructed, but never losing the voice.

Growing up in Waco, you’ll find, wasn’t exactly the best experience. In fact you already know that from sketches 3, 4, and 6, and you’ll get an even deeper delving in my final project. But it was entirely necessary – it furthered my writing and it allowed me to get in touch with myself, more intimately than I’d ever have been able to if my high school experience had been hunky-dory. In a way, I’m almost glad it wasn’t. In a way, I’m not glad at all.

Was it fair? No, of course not. Was life fair? Is it ever?

My point is, my writing was different then. Full of vengeful diction and optimistic zeal that I would rise, that I would conquer, that I would – in some Einsteinian sense of the word – Become. I would break from the chrysalis that surrounded me, and become the butterfly – the rainbow butterfly, of course – that I was always meant to be.

A friend of mine once told me that I was too big for the town I grew up in. He was right. I outgrew Waco like a pair of pants. And as I continued to forge my way in the world, as I moved past my adolescence and headed into my 20s, as I realized who I’d always been, I slowly began to shed the pain and insecurities of my past.

My writing reflected this. No longer was the character a sole arbiter of sanity against a society long corrupted by heteronormativity or adult-onset anhedonia, but rather I was a part of the cogs that turned, a member of society that recognized that everyone’s had their hardships, everyone’s struggled, but we all end up stronger for those of us that survive.

My trip to New York especially solidified this idea that I was swimming in a sea of everyone, and I had nothing of particular note to contribute. It was a comfort, for the most part. I could live without the burden of saving the world around me when I knew it wasn’t poisoned to begin with.

Most of this I can attribute to my brothers in Phi Mu Alpha Sinfonia. They challenge me, push me, support me, elevate me to a place I never could have reached by myself. And making it through the process was difficult but it helped me to understand myself and my circumstances that much more clearly. I can’t thank them enough for that.

All this to say, my writing has become less vindictive. I looked at Billy Collins, Andrea Gibson, Alysia Harris – poets as inspiration for my diction, their meter my dictation for how I said certain phrases. I saw their music, their lilt, as a tilting of their camera lens – something I wanted to emulate. And I believe I’ve accomplished a sliver of what I wanted. There’s always room for improvement.

I’m proud of myself this year. But I’m more than proud of my changing, my growth. And I can’t wait to see what I’ll be writing by the time I graduate. How will I grow from here? Where will I change this time? Will I continue to soften, like a used razor blade?

Is that what I need to do?

Who can say?

All I know is I’m ready. And as this writer begins his senior year, I cannot help but reflect on who I am, and who I’m destined to Become. But if the path strays, who am I to do anything but follow?