Quite frankly, I no longer know what writing is—at least for myself. Two years ago I was about to start this class and to me writing was what you wanted others to read. Despite what I may have felt, writing was a matter of what I wanted the other to feel. I’d puke at the idea of sappy teen-like stories with overbearing ideas about love and hate. Well, I still feel disgusted at the idea of that, though.
Now, I think, writing has become an absolutely selfish form of art. I express what I am and who I am regardless if it is pretty or well written or “good”. When I would write for the entertainment of other, I’d like to mess around with my narratives; I’d throw here and there mind boggling descriptions and introspection that would leave them thinking if only for a couple of seconds. Now I like to hide little secrets; details that only have meaning to me, certain colors or the placement of words. Maybe one will know that they mean, but it’s not about that anymore.
It seems now that my writing, much like myself, can be unknowingly and naturally sad. But we write what life gives us to understand and I’m a teenager—so naturally, I’m almost always a raging ball of out-blown thoughts and emotions. Almost all my pieces in this portfolio (if maybe for one or two, but still could be argued), have a spirit of nostalgia and melancholy. I used to make an effort to write bright pieces that even though may seem sad, the scenery would fool them; fresh meadows, ocean breezes, passionate kisses.
Now, I’m about to leave my second year of the Honors Literary Magazine class. It all seems both longing and expectant. Hesitantly waiting on the verge to see what happens. I need constant little reminders to myself that change is good and I need to expand—”Branching Out”. Like Lao Tzu says on the back cover, change is inevitable and for the good of oneself, it is best to just let it occur. I’ll keep those words in mind when moving on to a next stage of my life.
Editor's Note
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