The Writer in Me

Who would have thought that the pen and paper I hold can become my very weapon and shelter? I cannot remember the first time I wrote my first piece. I cannot remember what I even wrote about. But the ideas and memories I have in my head right now claim a certainty that at some point writing became a friend. It crawled on me. Writing used to be a requirement in school, where we had to copy letters then mimic their sounds. I remember our notebook filled with crooked letters as we tried to copy every stroke of every letter. I felt that we were wasting our time.

Back then, writing was a nuisance. We could just say what we want to say to other people. We could have been relieved of taking hours of trying to make every word look decent. The teacher graded our efforts. She looked at our notebooks every day, and she would say that we have improved. When I would look what I have written in a day, and review those that I have written the day before, I did not see any difference. But my teacher did, and trusted her for it. As time went by, I was able to make my writing look more refined. I took pride on how I was able to see the differences then.

We Will Write a Custom Essay Specifically
For You For Only $13.90/page!


order now

The words I have written were taken from a book. I wanted to try my newly mastered hand writing but I did not have anything to write about. So I took some of the story books given by my relatives, and copied the words as much as I can. When we presented what I have been practicing on to my teacher, she shared with me that I did not have to copy from books. I could have taken the elements of what I have written from my own thoughts. I then shared with her that I did not know what to write about because I did not think that what I thought of would have been any good for her to read.

She just smiled at me and said that I could write anything that I could think about. She also said that it would have been a good story because it came from me. I took what that teacher told me as I carried onto the next levels of my education. During writing assignments, I would always try to remember the things she told me. I was still worried that what I would write about would still be below average. I was afraid that my classmates would laugh at me. Nobody wanted that. That was when, I believe, I considered reading some short stories.

I know I should not take the content of it anymore, as I did when I was only learning how to write my words. So when I learned my words, I realized that I needed to find inspiration to make those words come out with sense. Simultaneously, I was keeping a little journal. I remember hearing some kids from school saying that they keep a diary so that they are able to immortalize their memories. I did not show them that keeping a journal was interesting. The front I usually showed other kids in school was not the complete me.

But I was unable to help it that there are still things I would rather keep to myself, even from my closest friend then. So I wrote a journal. However, as if it was the inevitable, the journal was discovered, and I had to answer the questions that were lifted from its leaves. I was embarrassed. I felt that my world was violated. The secret I have long kept were taken to broad daylight, as the little journal slipped from a pile while the one who discovered it was just cleaning. I stopped enjoying writing for a while. I did not want to face that endeavor again.

So every time I would have the urge to let all the emotions out, I was unable to resolve to writing. I was afraid that someone would find it, and use it against me again. Although I could only be exaggerating about the discovery of my journal, I was still too embarrassed to produce another one. Luckily, my closest friend kept our secrets between the two of us. So when I had the urge to just let all the pain go, I would call up my friend, or we could meet somewhere, so that we can get to talk with each other. However, I was still unable to let go of everything inside.

Sometimes I wished I should have. But when I look back on those days, I am quite glad that I did not because my friend left. Their family moved. Although phones have been long invented, and emails were running rampant, it will be different if we did not get to see each other again. My friend’s departure left a void in me. I remembered having this incredible desire to tell someone of how hurt I was even after waving goodbye with a smile to my friend left. I isolated myself in my room, too. But I knew that I would have to face reality, and the world beyond the locked door of my bedroom.

I have lost the one person I usually told my stories to. I was looking around the room, checking if I would find anything that would help fill the void in me. That was when my eyes landed on a pad paper and a pen. I remember biting my lips as I hesitated from picking up the items. But I also knew I had to confront the reality: writing is a part of me. With much resolve, I stood and took that pad and pen back to bed. I laid on my tummy as I wrote away the feelings I had then. However, with the ordeal about the journal still at the back of my head, I wrote those feelings in a form of a story.

I wrote a story about me and my friend. The things I would miss and will always remember about that friend who became more than an inspiration. After having written the little tale, I kept it in a secret container. I am not yet over the fact that my friend left me. But one day, when I’d review what I have written I will just remember the adventures we had with scars completely healed. Until then, writing would be my friend. Meeting is not a problem, and I know that pen and paper will never leave me. As time went by, I experienced the company of friends and acquaintances who came and went.

Writing remained as a constant friend, and I never again felt to be so alone. I always have a set of pen and paper with me when I start feeling the blues. When I think about the things that turned foul during the day, I would write down a quick story or entry that would relate to my reality. To me, it did not have to make sense, nor did it have to be written with perfect grammar and punctuation marks. As long as I am able to let out the grief or happiness through a piece of paper, I know I would be fine. My sanity will remain intact. Then one day, I discovered the wonders of blogging.

Yes, I resolved to this technology under a pen name no one would assume as mine. This is because when I looked at the many papers I have written, I knew I would not always be able to keep them all from everyone else. What is also great about keeping a blog is that other members in the network are able to leave comments and constructive criticism about what I have written. Writing blogs did not require me to have a lot of knowledge. Sometimes, I believe my emotions were enough. It became on online journal for all to see, and I was not judged by it.

I, along with the other contacts in the network, learned to grow through writing. Other people may laugh about how I turned to using blogging as an alternate avenue to keep my sanity. However, it has brought me to believe that writing did not just change my perspectives, but also aided me through all the events when I suffered. Many people will see that writing has been used to share a tale. But for me, writing became a friend who stayed. It did not lead me to isolation. It helped me grow with the world as I learned from the experiences I have written down.