Final Textual EssayVeronica Fontes
Why Do I Write?

I have no regrets about my major. English is a challenge but so is picking out the perfect outfit and even picking the best course with a cool professor and not too much work load. It is all a struggle. As an English major, others think “Wow! You must be an amazing writer. Words must come naturally to you. I wish I could write essays as easily as you do.” Well, me too.

I got an assignment a week ago that left me in pieces. There I sat, angrily pumping a bright red stress ball my sister tossed me after hearing my shrieks. “I cannot be this dumb? My life cannot be this dull. It shouldn’t be this hard.” I muttered. The assignment was to write about anything worth mentioning. But nothing was worth mentioning. Not a single idea. Every thought and image was blocked, every syllable, every word was missing. Locked inside a castle placed gently in my mind, patrolled by elvish creatures. Each one guarding my thoughts, tugging at the strings linked with my lips, striking at the chance of creativity. I buckle and surrender to their will. No more remembering, there is no use of retelling a tale forgotten. It must not have been worth mentioning. “But what story should I write? What should I talk about? What essay is personal, objective and abstract?” I panic at the words on the screen flashing: Due: Proposals for 3 potential essays (200 words each) [hard copy / .doc via Dropbox]. There is not enough time.

Several hours and naps later it hits me, “Remember Fassler’s story. The glass in the dog’s paw”. I was struggling to come up with anything creative to write about, and that story was based on the lesson that it does not matter what you want to write about, I mean who really cares? Let’s focus on how what I want to say is being written. An entire essay was built on that image. I just need to focus on an image. There ahead of me it lies. The blinking cursor, an empty page with the phrase “200 word essay” up top. I decided to let out the student within me. I figured everyone from class is pretty much doing the same; grumbling and pouting in frustration. Why not write about it? But before I could, my ritual had to begin. I glide my fingers across the warm processor and select Shut Down. I begin to surrender to the world around me as I reclines back into the aqua stained sofa. The once crisp and vacant lined sheets, now laid crumpled and sketched by my toes.

Ripped in frustration, they covered the mahogany stained wood. Nestled under my mug, once full of warm honey and lemon zest, now sat empty and cold. I decide to crawl back into my comfort zone of destroyed sweats and an empty top before I can start my craft. To embrace my thought process I reach over to the Bluetooth speakers and hit play. Full of confidence I skip around the hardwood floor in socks, collecting dust, dancing along to my favorite tunes, in one hand and a hairbrush as a microphone in the other. I declare my efforts a success and ends with a bow, laughing at myself. I clumsily trip over the couch and fall over. As my head hits the cold hardened floor I feel an immense sharpening pain comforted by a warm breeze from the slightly opened window. A gaze from above my head shows the installed dusky lights dim over my slightly shut eyelids; suddenly I realize I feels calm as ever, as if nothing could go wrong.

Writing is natural for me, and this assignment would not hinder my ability to do so. I reach across for my treasured writing utensils which laid scattered left and right. Through miniature notes glued to the floorboards, highlighters, syllabuses and old articles defining video essays and surfaces with a pen and journal. I push my arms out and lifts myself off the cold floor. My arms wriggle as I roll my neck to the left, right, up and down in preparation. I let out a yawn and stretch out the rest of my limbs believing that a little adjustment would prove beneficial. With a twist of my wrists, I begin to compose.
I don’t want to offend those who have a hard time writing. Sometimes, I myself struggle
with it every day. Sometimes, I wonder if it was all worth it. What did I really learn from this
major? I mean I had decided it in high school, with much help from guidance counselors and teachers. They who shoved me into an Advanced Creative Writing course, hoping I would award them a published author by now. Boy I failed miserably.

But I look back at how much I achieved and how I helped tutor student with their own pieces. Yes, as an English major I struggle with my hopes for the future, especially since I am 3 classes away from graduating. I always feel anxious and think maybe I should have taken my own advice. Philosophy and Law would have been a lot more gainful as a major. I should have looked into my hobbies a little bit more. But too little too late. It’s not like I could rewind time and tell the younger me to make better decisions.

It seemed like an average day in my Creative Writing class. Mr. Grant announced that this next assignment would be challenging and an experience we would learn from. We had to write about a dystopian society where a character was battling to survive. Students were struggling to get their thoughts down on paper. From my observation and the students’ reaction, it was clear that they did not know where to begin. However, my mind was functioning like a computer, I did not have to pause to think; words jumped from my mind to the paper just as quickly as air entered and exited my body. I was in a vigilant state. I felt compelled to write of adventures and explorations. Ask me to explain why or how this happens, and you would receive nothing, but a shrug. I never look at the blank spaces in front of me. I pretend as though I am a character and note my settings and actions down for the narrator to follow. I wish I could tell you that I think about who my character should be, what problems I have faced that they could as well. But I cannot lie. Maybe I was born to write? Maybe it’s natural? Or perhaps I had great teachers. Who knows for sure? I bet it’s because of all those television shows and movie marathons, people warned me against. Maybe that’s what spiked my creativity.

I began to write and for the first time in a while I enjoyed it. Since I was ever introduce to essays, paragraphs, sentence structure and MLA format I have hated writing. I never enjoyed receiving prompts. I can’t stand it. Teachers and Professors always administer assignments to us to follow, there is no space for creativity.  I felt like a robot, invented to spew out facts, back them up with strong evidence (aka quotes) and opinions. But not just any opinion, an opinion that was absolute, something that I had to persuade and argue to the point where I did not even agree with the words myself. I wonder why they even ask for our opinions about topics we are not interested in.

When I took a creative writing class I felt as though I was the director, but instead of a movie screen, my work would be displayed on paper. As I wrote, I felt an adrenaline rush overcome my senses. I could not stop my right hand from racing across the page. Thoughts poured from my visual mind and transformed into descriptive images. I wrote of a dystopian world where the protagonist dealt with issues of sanity, mortality and survival. It started as a class assignment, progressed into a hobby and soon enough became my passion. Ever since then, the pencil could not be pried from my fingertips. I wonder if that’s why I write. Do I enjoy writing for its creativity, its form or is it the only thing I feel confident about. I mean, I never thought much of my writing before this class. In the beginning, it was just a couple of sheets of paper, planted with vocabulary that instructors trained me to adopt.

Part of the assignment was to complete an oral presentation of the writing piece we created. As the students read their stories, I began to feel uneasy. I did believe that my story would be up to par with my peers. But that was just my thought. They were the ones who would critique my efforts. When my turn came, I was a nervous wreck. Every word I produced, I thought to myself “No! Aw man. I should’ve… I could’ve…” It wasn’t until I looked up and saw the students’ reaction. Some standing in awe, my teacher’s face was priceless. I felt like I had just won an Oscar and was thanking them for everything. The confidence I gained taught me that my writing was worthy.
After I completed the assignment, I began to write haikus, poems, essays, short stories and even short novels. As time passed, I broadened my ideas. I wrote about destroyed lives, gated communities, different cultures, and persuasive stories. I was able to create the impossible as long as the pencil was in my hand. I could invent worlds, charismatic characters and unique ideas. Writing is not only a privilege, but also a great opportunity for someone like myself to express my thoughts in a way that is fit for me. Writing opened doors for my imagination, I am free to express my true emotions. Writing to me is an instinct. Whenever, I have a stressful day, problems at home, or trouble concentrating, I peer open my notebook, clutch my fingers around a stress ball and unleash my creativity.