Write - 31 Things Day 23

The first book I wrote was in Mr. Johnson’s fifth-grade class. We made books for our parents for Christmas, bound them and illustrated them, and I thought it was the best surprise ever. My parents did, too, since that book was put out with the other books on the book shelf near the family room for many years.

I think this may be where my love of writing started. Seeing that story come alive and turn into something tangible that I could hold in my hands is something I’ll never forget.

I was never afraid of a writing assignment in school, although I might groan, knowing how much work would go into it. But once I got started it was hard to stop. In college, I remember loving test day. You were given a blue book with about eight pages of lined ruled paper and a question or problem and told to write. And I wrote. I would write for one, two, three hours straight (however long the class was) without stopping, my hand cramping up but my mind feeling strangely light and free.

Throughout the years I’ve turned to writing on and off. At times I’ve kept a journal. (I am not keeping a journal at the moment, but thinking about it.) At other times I’ve turned to poetry (classes with Deborah Keenan and meeting Elizabeth Alexander during our MALS program were some highlights that really turned me towards poetry). At other times I have written short stories. (I won first prize for a short story my senior year at Hamline. The prize was $33.) At other times I’ve focused more on real, academic writing (the Academic books Andrés and I wrote together - grammar books still being used at EPN today). And still at other times the thought of writing has either terrified me or seemed tedious and superfluous.

What I love about writing isn’t just the sense of accomplishment and satisfaction it gives me. I love the feeling of moving things around, cutting and pasting, finding the perfect home for a sentence or paragraph. Experimenting with style and voice. I don’t usually like what I’ve written when I go back and reread, but the act of writing really fulfills me.

Writing, it seems, has always been a part of my life. Depending on where I am at, it might scare me, or thrill me, or make me feel inadequate, or help me solve a problem, or just help me get the negativity out of my system. It might even be glaringly absent, like it has been for the last couple of years. But it’s there, waiting for when I’m ready to find it.