Writing through the years

I've always had a particular fondness for words. I remember so clearly the first day of 3rd grade when Mrs. Case introduced the first "Word of the Day." It was "essential." Part of me is amazed that I still remember this after well over a decade, but knowing the things my brain holds onto, it's not surprising at all.

When I was in middle school, I used to write short stories in little spiral notebooks with Lisa Frank or puppies on the cover. I'd never finish, but I almost always began with vivid imagery setting the scene for some adventure my protagonist would journey through.

In high school, I began writing a screen play, purely for fun, to capture the frivolity and fun of my teenage years. I wrote "Friends Abort" with help from two of my closest friends. Senior year, I shot the film, edited it and premiered it at a friend's birthday party to about a dozen or so of our friends.

Then I discovered the world of blogging. I'd write about what I did that day, something that was bothering me, a movie I just saw, or some grand epiphany. Another blog I write is dedicated purely to things that I hear people say that make me laugh.

This past summer, I took a short story writing class, partly for fun, partly to hone my skill as a writer. I wrote so many pieces I was proud of, but at the same time oddly protective. I loved to reread my stories, but I never really wanted to share them with the world. I was pushing myself as a writer and started to become self-consious of my work because I couldn't figure out where these stories were coming from in my head. In the past, I wouldn't write anything until I had a solid idea of what it was going to be about. In this class, I learned to just write. I stopped deleting and started to just let the words flow. Sometimes what I produced was utter shit, but sometimes it was brilliant.

Over the years that bring me to the present, I've struggled to actually finish any piece of writing I am truly proud of. I publish a blog post and I feel the urge to edit away or delete the thing altogether, or I start a short story but end up unhappy with the direction it flows, or I write a poem that I never want to see again. But I think this is just the curse of the writer. A writer spills her guts in everything she writes. It's personal, it's her voice, even if it's just a note on the whiteboard, directions on how to do something or a fictitious short story.

I think I have found solace in the fact that I'll never be happy with anything I write. It's never going to be perfect, but that's what makes it beautiful.