I am a writer. I am also a teenager. Strange how two such ailments, in conjunction with each other, actually make the combination more bearable. Writing gives me some way to keep my head above the rising tide of changing identities and new perceptions of my world, while those same exhausting discoveries provide fuel for my literary tendencies.
Yes, I love acclaim, love the applause, but that’s not why I write. 90% of my pieces never see the light of day, squirreled away on my computer in prim and polished folders, a of comedy of errors. When I write, it is for my eyes and mine alone, an exercise in searching through the quagmire of perceptions and ideas that is the jumbled teenage mind. We teenagers are like children in all ways but one: while a child absorbs everything and anything you put in its path, we teenagers are tasked with creating those influences ourselves, creating our personas out of a world that is trying to drown us. It is a formidable task.
So, instead of despairing utterly, I write. I write in the perhaps vain hope that I may someday be able to realize a young woman’s ambition of taking her introverted mind and letting it breath paper and script until it had nothing left to hide. For that is the purpose of this constant state of uncertainty we live in, is it not? To find that special little place where we are no longer uncertain, where we are content in ourselves. Where we are ourselves utterly.
I will always write; I know nothing else, but I hope someday to become an author as well as a writer, someone who knows herself well enough to speak to others even as she struggles to speak for herself.