A New Page (Draft 1)

When I was younger, I wrote poetry about God. I had a small spiral notebook with spring

flowers painted on the front where I kept my little Christian poems. In third grade, I submitted

one to a Christian writing competition through school, and won a prize. That very poem sits

framed on the back of the toilet in the downstairs bathroom at my parents house.

Having played with poetry from such a young age, I felt confident expressing an interest

in writing. But I was hesitant to call myself a writer. When I tossed the idea around in my

head, I felt like a phony. I knew that in order to call myself a writer, Id have to put some sort of

trudging effort in, and that for me, itd been too easy.

In high school, I took AP English Literature. I remember writing analysis essays that I

thought, when I turned them in, would get me an A for sure. How appalled I was when my

paper was returned hashed up with red pen, and pronounced a C on the last page. I continued to

work hard on my essays, taking my teachers remarks seriously and spending an ungodly amount

of time in the library. In that time, I established my own writing process. My classmates made

fun of me for consistently having my papers written before the assignment deadline. But I did it

for my own sake. I wasnt that person who waited till the last minute and cranked the essay out

in 3 hours. Instead, I would sit down and write for about an hour across three days, maybe a

week, adding to what I had and editing along the way. What frustrated me was when the

procrastinator got a better grade than I did.

Fast forward to college. I decided to study English because I was so invested in

manipulating my words and analyzing texts. I carried my writing process that I established in

high school with me to college. However, I recall during that time of transition, a distinct change

in the way I thought about and processed my writing. When I sat down with my laptop in the
Caf, I was mentally present, able to formulate clear thoughts about the topic and translate them

into writing. I dont know if it was because I was taking greater ownership over my writing,

because it was college now. I dont know if I was just getting better at writing because I was

putting in the time and effort to practice, to care about it. I dont know if my brain was more

developed at that point. But I do know my writing was improving.

Freshman year, I took a literary criticism class with a bunch of juniors and seniors. That

semester I wrote a paper about John Donnes poem The Flea. My professors reaction, that hed

never seen such an interpretation as mine on that particular work, had me reeling. I began

fantasizing about what itd be like to be published, and considered, maybe I could call myself a

writer if my work ever was.

My favorite classes in college were creative writing and a poetry seminar. I finally felt

like my writing was set free. I wasnt assigned to write an essay criticizing a piece of literature, I

was asked to create. To remember. To play. My last semester of college I took a creative non-

fiction class with my Honors Advisor, Phillip Cioffari, that changed the way I perceived my

writing. I had worked with Dr. Cioffari the semester prior, as he oversaw the writing of my

Honors Thesis. For my these, I decided to write a collection of poems that, lets be honest, I

fantasized would be published. The closest I got was reading it aloud during presentation week,

and getting a good response from the audience. Looking back on these poems, I am surprised at

how dark, how sensuous they were. I think I was able to tap in to some part of myself at that time

that I didnt know existed.

Over my last semester of undergrad, in Cioffaris class, we developed a portfolio of four

personal essays. We workshopped a few pieces a week. I poured my heart and soul in to those

creative non-fiction pieces. And I was never so excited to attend class. Not only did I love
reading my work aloud, I loved commenting on the writing of my peers. I had a huge ego boost

through that class.

My last and most awkward writing experience in college was in my capstone class. The

professor constructed the course around topics of censorship. And his instruction or guidance on

our 4 essays was minimal, to say the least. Many of my peers struggled with this lack of

direction, and we talked a lot about that in class. How we should be able to come up with a topic

for a paper without being told what to write from an outside source. It made me laugh that many

of my peers didnt like this so much.

Once college ended, I felt like I could confidently claim the art of poetry and creative

non-fiction writing two genres I was unfamiliar with when entering college.

Outside of school, I never did write anything on my own terms. Apart from my morning

journal, which functions more as a prayer journal, I hadnt picked up a pen to craft a piece that

strictly came from myself.

Fast forward to this course, to this assignment. I, for some reason, have not felt this

stumped about what to write in, I dont remember how long. I dont know if its because my

mind is spent from the course load this semester, or if I simply dont have any stories I feel are

worth telling. I even believe in the way Dr. McConn had us free write a bunch, then try to pull an

idea from our pages of pre-writing. But nothing in my pages stood out as worthwhile to me. I

didnt want to write another academic paper, trying to sound smart about something I really dont

know much about theorizing in a flowery way to make others swoon. I wanted to write a

personal essay, something to cleanse my palate, help me work through some problem I didnt

know I had through self-reflection. I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to workshop

my piece with my peers something I hadnt had in a long time something I find invaluable.
 I even tried out Peter Elbows advice, sitting down at my computer and forcing myself to

free write a few times. And I hated everything that came out. Yesterday, I was complaining to my

husband about my struggle with this paper, and I actually started crying. Tears, real tears over a

stupid paper.

Yet during this time, I have also been brainstorming and getting my ideas down about a

young adult novel I want to write. Ive gotten excited about the premise of the story and even

forced myself to begin the manuscript. Ive been romanticizing the idea of being a published

author, something that seems to be a trend through my writing history. I think its like anything

you do, you imagine being the best at it and becoming famous, or at least recognized by a few

people.

So, whats my journey with writing been? Id say that its only just begun. I think so far,

Ive only scratched the surface of my abilities as a writer. I have yet to really dig deep, in the way

one must to run a marathon. If I actually want to reach my goal to be a published author, I will

have to get there. To experience writing as a different sort of breathing mechanism, where

sometimes your lungs are clear, and sometimes youre winded, but you must continue to do it in

order to survive.