Confessions From A Reluctant Writer

April Essay

I vividly remember being asked why I didn't tell people that I was a writer when they asked what I did. My reply was, "It's something that I dabble in, not something that I'm working at." Calling myself a writer didn't sit right with me. English was my second language, and I didn't start to properly learn grammar until I'd been in the States for a couple of years (I was around thirteen). I was self-conscious about my grammar then, and I still am. Oh, and it took me until sophomore year of high school to realize why my essays were getting marked down for my syntax. One of my favorite teachers kindly pointed out that I was arranging my sentences like Yoda talks. I needed that explained to me, and I was relieved that someone finally did. I was structuring my sentences the way I would in Spanish. For all these reasons, I didn't feel like I could label myself as a writer.

I haven't always been super consistent with writing, unless you count my Instagram captions. When I was a kid, I was all about journaling. My first diary was this super fluffy purple one with a heart-shaped lock and key. I can't exactly remember what I wrote about, but it probably had something to do with how frustrated I was with my brothers' inability to read my mind. An inability that undoubtedly ruined my creative vision! I mean, who dresses up as Mario and Luigi for a Christmas play? They walked out to our performance area with mustaches painted on.