The pen is mightier than the sword, so who wouldn't be drawn to it? I've never quite been sure of what exactly it is about writing that enthralls me, but I've always loved to it. Like an artist, I enjoy creating something out of nothing, so maybe that is why I love to write. Better yet, it may be the feeling, the sense of excitement, that I feel when the tip of my pencil touches a fresh, clean sheet of lined paper. The indescribable feeling of comfort, familiarity, and peace all rolled into one. Then again, it may be the satisfaction of reading my little masterpiece once it is finished. Well, whatever the reason, I have always loved writing.

I used to write frequently, and for enjoyment, not grades. I truly loved to express myself, to pour my soul out onto paper. I wrote because I loved to. I wrote because, in a world of turmoil, how else was I supposed to speak my mind?

Then, slowly but surely, I grew older; and it seemed that the older I grew, the more disinterested I became. In the second grade, my writing was excellent. In the third grade, it was superb. In fourth grade, my writing was at its peak. I loved writing and was successful at it. I was at an all time high in my writing career. I would sit at my desk, pouring my mind out onto paper, feeling peaceful. In those days, writing was my solace. When I wrote, I was on top of the world.

However, when something peaks, from there on it's all downhill. My interest in writing started to dwindle as I slowly matured.

In the sixth and seventh grades, I began to write only when required or instructed to do so. I still loved to write, but I no longer seemed to have the time to do so. I wrote only for grades. My only motivation was my teacher's red pen.

When I did write though, I loved doing so. I felt whole, complete when I wrote. Each time I wrote, I felt as if I had been missing a part of myself, and it had been found. My pen seemed to have a mind of its own. Each time it made contact with paper, beautiful, eloquent words would flow effortlessly from its tip. These words would form sentences, which would combine to form paragraphs that, when read, would cause you to feel either melancholy, joyful, mad, elated, or dozens of other wondrous emotions that can only be experienced in a story.

In the end, everything would come together to form a wonderful masterpiece full of voice and ingenuity, a little work of art. My little work of art. A masterpiece of my own creation that I could be proud of.

It took me quite a long time to realize just how much I missed writing for personal enjoyment rather than for a grade. How much I longed to create a little masterpiece. I started to wonder who I was if I didn't do what I loved. If I missed pencil sharpeners, paper, and eraser shavings, then why didn't I write again? If I longed to pour my soul out onto paper, what was holding me back? I should be doing what I loved, because what you love makes you who you are!