Natalie Browning Writing Writing makes me feel like… Whenever I join pen and paper…The smell of lead overwhelms my nostrils… I tend to sense that my notions of writing change once I…Smooth keys furiously click away as my fingers dance delightfully to the light of the lamp on my desk… This is so incredibly ridiculous…Writing is hard. A friend once told me that for him the term “writer’s block” wasn’t quite accurate. He described his version of this mental state as more of a “writer’s Rubix cube.” While struggling and straining in frustration or even embarrassment, a solution still exists. It’s only a matter of time, perseverance, and even a bit of help from friends before you reach your victory. I have yet to solve a Rubix cube. Is it lack of knowledge? Stamina? Desire? Truthfully, I feel it is a mix of the three. The success of others in solving both Rubix cubes and “writer’s block” gives me hope of finding solutions myself. How, though, I do not know. Perhaps it is a fear of failure that leaves my Rubix cube still scrambled and my writing file still full of unfinished documents and half-hearted attempts at brilliant literary creations. They aren’t that brilliant. I still have much to learn in the ways of becoming a skilled literary genius author. Without a doubt, however, I realize the impossibility of quitting such a noble pursuit. I simply refuse to. Humans have a remarkable capacity to create. I was fascinated to learn in an English Language class that, unlike other creatures, humans have the ability to form ideas and sentences they have never before heard or learned anywhere else. Because of this dynamic power, humans have a vastly expansive—almost unlimited—capacity to both
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teach and learn. Writing is both a crucial ingredient and a by-product of this process. It is through the doing that we learn and ultimately become. Writing is my therapy. A doctor may prescribe medications, a chiropractor may align one’s bones, but for me writing’s outpouring of ideas is an exhalation of every poisonous droplet of negativity stuck to my insides. My moving hands are somehow able to shake free those toxic beads. Fear, doubt, and tension dissipate to leave an only faintly smudged canvas blank enough to work with in redrawing my attitude about life. During my real writing days (aka middle school), I gave myself adequate time to write—to truly write. Once the house was quiet and dark, and my unsuspecting parents assumed I was slumbering in my bed, I would accept that golden time to let my mind float into other worlds, diving through mossy redwoods and dusty prairies, climbing mountains and fighting wars. The process was near the same each night: I’d glide down over the edge of my bed like a viscous blob of molasses, then hesitate on the floor, straining to hear if my mom had heard the gentle groan of the mattress before straightening up and goose-stepping my way across the carpet. Sometimes the old bedroom floor would protest traitorously, causing me to cringe and freeze for a few moments before continuing my journey. I knew I’d set off land mine of “Go back to bed” if I wasn’t quiet, so I’d devised this method with supreme care as if my own life depended on it. With my heart racing and my Lord of the Rings soundtrack trumpeting softly, I would write for hours by flashlight My folders were filled to the gills…My notebooks were overflowing with crumpled papers and cards covered in messy ink scrawl. I had huge ideas and the desire to run and catch them. However, the growing weight of textbooks burdening my backpack gradually muffled that desire. When did I
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stop writing for personal enjoyment? The stresses of school and work rapidly made me forget the enthralling beauty and abilities of my imagination, as the little down time I had was spent on other activities. The delight and satisfaction eroded to a tiresome chore. Difficult or not, I cannot and must not escape the fact that writing is a part of me. It’s part of everyone. It is a part of most people in some way. Children go to school, take spelling tests, and are given tedious journal prompts. Travelers mindlessly pass by billboards and ads. Journalists fight to stay at the top of their ability and impress their employers, peers, and audiences. Whether people realize it or not, the way we use our words says a lot about ourselves, our culture, our careers, our schooling, our beliefs, and our dreams; writing has the immense power to express and to achieve. It is through writing that famous lyrics are brought to grocery stores and singing teenagers in the car. It is through writing that workd are published and perspectives can be transformed. It is through writing that spirits have been healed and lives renewed. Lastly, it is through writing that we learn to write. We just do it. Throughout my short life thus far, writing has influenced me in numerous ways. In reading the works of others Comic writing has pummeled me with stomach-wrenching eye-burning laughter. Vulnerable poor souls in tragic novels have burrowed within my heart, leading me to reverence the authors who penned such emotional tales. Autobiographies have awed me with the characters and beliefs of bold and courageous individuals. As well, writings of inspiration and religion have converted my perspectives on life, humbling me and teaching me how to deal with the taxing trials I’ve faced. From the earthy roots lodged deep within the author to the branches stretching over other individuals and communities, writing blesses, instructs, and changes people.
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inhabitants of the future. I wonder how I’ve left these imprints untouched, esteemed from afar and collecting dust for so long. These imprints are what can push us forward, are what we should use to gain insight from and then act for ourselves on, no? I reflect on authors like Shakespeare or J.K. Rowling. Though I can assume Shakespeare hoped his work lasted on to affect future generations, did he truly realize it would become standard curriculum for grades ranging from middle school through college? J.K. Rowling mentioned she started her ideas for Harry Potter on a napkin at a café. At that time she was a destitute single mother, truly at the cold and desperate bedrock of her existence. Authors like these were inspired by writers who came before. Authors like these prove the reward of grueling persistence and continue to affect generations. Weren’t they also discouraged by “Rubix cubes” of their own? Though I am sometimes skeptical about ever acquiring my own “lightning bolt literary epiphany,” it’s worth a shot, isn’t it? I don’t care about becoming the next William Shakespeare or J.K. Rowling. I care about influencing others for good. I know the words I’ve both read and have written have affected my life and have shown effects of great learning and growth. Difficult or not, it is through writing that I will learn to write. I’ll just do it. Bring back the soundtrack, the flashlight, and the late night “Eureka!” Keep writing. I know I will, especially since being freed from the necessity of my childhood’s “molasses-style” stealth. Journal writing, school assignments, research papers, and letters to friends and family will continue, all aiding some way to maintain the flow of creative juices in my brain and leading to other literary ventures in the future. As we write, edit,
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receive criticism, reflect, and write some more, we will learn to better express ourselves in ways that not only others will relate to and learn from, but in ways that will bring greater development and literary strengths to ourselves as well. Who knows? Maybe through simple perseverance I will master my Rubix cube… my persistent, awful, incorrigible “writer’s Rubix cube.” Writing takes time, yes, but it can change lives. It has changed mine. It is changing mine at this very moment.