My Own Paper Trail

Macy, Spring 2009

            Here and now, I present myself to you as I am: an adolescent female, young and naive, but mature and knowledgeable about the ways of the world.  I am strong and confident and became as such through weakness and insecurity.  I am vocal and active in the causes I believe in and I became that by listening.  I am growing, changing, evolving, and I am lucky to be able to see every step of my journey in my writing. 

            People always say, ‘you write what you know’.  A theoretical statement, I suppose, but in the last year, I’ve thoroughly tested the old theory and I have found it undeniably true.  There’s something I’ve noticed about every serious writer I’ve met.  Each has a sort of boldness about them that causes them to place themselves in vulnerability’s wrath time and again in order to share their story.  Perhaps that’s why we write what we know.  We’re willing to open ourselves up to the judgment of our audience in pursuit of shared wisdom.  For instance, two years ago, my great-grandmother was diagnosed with dementia, a mental disease that can be further diagnosed as Alzheimer’s with an autopsy.  In a short piece I wrote this year, my main character’s grandfather died from Alzheimer’s.  In that piece, I was able to write all the thoughts, fears, and consolations that had been running through my head for two years.  It was slightly painful to write and certainly nerve-wracking to present, but it was so satisfying to be able to share my experience with the class under the protection of a character. 

            When that same great-grandmother died early this spring, it was my very first brush with death.  For awhile I’d had this theory going, but in the aftermath of her death, I proved it true: writing heals.  When I pick up a pencil and open my notebook, a blank page stares up at me, free from distractions and untainted by the world.  Nothing inhibits the expression of raw emotion.  To recuperate from the loss of my great-grandmother, I wrote the piece, “Unanswered Questions”.  This memoir is precious to me because, as I described my nana and all my feelings towards her, I was able to both rid myself of the heavy thoughts and keep a piece of my dear nana forever.  While my memory may fade, that piece of writing, written at the point of raw emotion following loss, will never go away and through that piece, I’ll always remember what my nana looked like, smelled like, acted like, and meant to me.  With the help of those papers, I am able to put my nana’s death behind me, without the fear of losing my love for someone so dear to me.  While Nana’s passing weighed so heavy on me in the weeks that followed the death, once I wrote her memoir, it felt as if an angel had taken the yoke of my shoulders.  That angel was writing.

            Also, as I wrote that piece, I learned so many things.  I always have a million ideas and thought-trains spider-webbing themselves in my brain.  It is impossible to truly follow one path.  But when I slowed down the spinning strings and began to focus, I was able to get a true sense of all that I knew about that amazing woman. As I wrote about my nana, I saw her as a person because I realized the amazing character pictures that my little facts about her taught me.  When I write, I ask myself questions, questions I always knew the answer to somewhere inside of my brain, though I’d never realized it.  I analyze, discover, decide, and defend until I reach a conclusion, even if I find that there is no feasible conclusion.

            While writing has taught me many things about life, the relationship is mutual.  Life has also taught me loads about writing.  In life, words often no longer say what you need.  Ever since we were little, we’ve been taught that actions speak louder than words.  In elementary school, that was always a saying that I looked at and thought, ‘if you say so…’  When you’re young, it seems there are an over-abundance of words to say exactly what you need.  All my life, I’ve had no trouble finding a word, or several words, to fit my feelings.   However, as I’ve grown as a person, a writer, a student, and a friend, I’ve seen the power of a hug overtake a condolence, a round of applause act more meaningfully than an accolade, a picture instill more than an historical description, and, in my writing, a description more adequately express a moment than a statement of fact. 

            Sometimes, though, silence is the loudest form of communication.  When a reader or a person is left in silence to interpret the meaning of the moment, something unable to be replicated occurs.  In that single moment of silence, a person’s thoughts decrease and a powerful and resounding message is transmitted that could not be matched in any number of words.  Thus appears another lesson to transfer between life and writing.  Silence in writing is just as powerful as silence in life.  Length is an unnecessary component to a worthwhile story.  In true literary masterpieces, the message of the writing is not stated in the text, but is in the thoughts provoked upon reading.           

Ever since I was young, writing has been close to my heart.  From the scribbles of make-believe stories from my childhood and along every step of the way, writing has always been an outlet for my deepest secrets, thoughts, and prayers.  Pen and paper never judge nor take advantage of vulnerability, so I have always felt comfortable jotting down even the most personal of notions.  I am immensely glad that I did, because all I need to do is open a folder on my computer and there is my life story, my growth, etched out over pages upon pages of my character’s stories.  I can look back to the ignorance of elementary school, reflected in the ‘it’ll work out’ plots of my fictitious work.  I am able to see the purity of sixth grade in my character’s motives.  I look back on those years, those one-dimensional years, and smile.  The beginning of seventh grade follows the same pattern of bliss simplicity, but as I glance at the final months of seventh grade, documented in ink, a chill runs down my spine as I see the new-found dark pessimism begin.  Writing, for me, is like a mirror of myself.  It forces me to see my good times and my dark times.  Most importantly, it shows me that bad times are not permanent and even when no answer is apparent, time slowly heals difficult wounds.

I’m proud of my growth in writing and in life.  As I’ve grown in one aspect, I’ve inevitably grown in the other because writing is such a large part of who I am.  Writing is the place I know I can trust to run to and slow down my thoughts.  As I continue to mature, I am looking forward to watching my writing mature with me.  I am eager to see the lessons that will be learned and the wounds that will be healed by the pen, the paper, and the soul that is poured into each page I print.