Home Again.

I remember the first time I ever felt that inexplicable need to write. I was so young, yet I knew that I had to commit these thoughts to paper, give them some permanence. I would admire their structure, their sound, their ability to give my creation life.

I think it is when I am home that I truly feel inspired.

A bicoastal life requires constant attention, inspiration becomes mechanical. As I try to maintain a certain level of productivity in life, work and my education, I lose all sense of the comforts of a home and begin to feel somewhat lost.

Most times, I come to loathe the phrases that once seemed true. They lose their charm and become tainted with the self-doubt that plagues most of my words. The passage of time ruins my perceived perfection, exposing it to be flawed, imperfect.

But sometimes, I succeed.

Sometimes the words just flow; I let the sound of them guide me. It is organic, the music in the language creates the meaning. It is these bits of creation that feel the most natural, and the most genuine, the most true. Sometimes I must simply allow the words to show me what I mean to say, and I feel them guide me to a place that, before, I could never have imagined or thought up. Some expressions reveal truth that I didn’t even realize, until I deconstruct the words that seemed to lead me to this place of beauty and truth.

It is in these moments that I feel truly inspired.

Where are we now?

Where are we now?

My introspective look at race relations in the U.S.

Inspiration

“If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write something worth reading or do things worth writing.”

— Benjamin Franklin

50 Best Tips from the San Francisco Writers Conference (Part 1)

50 Best Tips from the San Francisco Writers Conference (Part 1)

By Pauline Wiles

“I think writin…

“I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame. ”
— Alice Walker

Reading to Write

“There is creative reading as well as creative writing.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

While browsing the internet for inspiration and tips on how to improve my craft, I came across a bit of advice: If you want to write well, you need to read, a lot. Simple, right? Kind of a no-brainer..

I think I always knew this, but somewhere along the way, I forgot. I grew up with a voracious appetite for the written word. Books sustained me, I couldn’t get enough. I would read these beautifully written passages and wonder how the authors packed so much meaning and detail into them.

But then, I just stopped. I stopped reading, and, eventually, I stopped writing.

It wasn’t until my last year of high school that I took up the habit again. I rediscovered the wonder that a reader is afforded: wonder at the landscapes, the details, the characters. Reading great literature is like peeking into the mind of some great author and seeing how it works, how the ideas come together, how problems arise and how they are solved. 

It’s easy to get discouraged about writing when you feel that you can’t express the most important details and remain true to your subject. But when you’re armed with an arsenal of knowledge, knowledge of what works and what doesn’t  it’s easier to start, to keep going, and to perfect your writing.

Turning Points

Curiosity made me; it lured me to that place that I would never forget. I quickly realized that I had stumbled upon something that would affect the rest of my life. As I stared at the photographs lining the gallery walls, a quick surge of passion took hold of me.

The photographs were so vivid, so saturated with color; they captured a lifetime in a moment.

Then, it hit me, the self-doubt that plagues me. I doubted if I could say as much as these photographs said, with such elegance and honesty. They were so beautiful, so poignant, that they made me feel small. I was a child before the ocean: its vastness overpowering me.

But that doubt quickly faded away to reveal something even better: the realization that I had discovered a passion so great that it made me question if I was worthy of it. Finally I had a dream so intense that it made me change the way I lived, to alter parts of myself, to become better.

We all have pivotal moments in life, I was lucky to experience one early; even more, I was lucky enough to recognize it as it was happening, and fully enjoy it. These are the moments that I am most grateful for. These are the moments that capture the heart of humanity, and define lives.

Why Write?

As the deadline approaches, the clock ticks louder, quicker. The insurmountable pressure builds and builds, leaving behind a strained expression, visible tension pulling at her physical existence. The lone writer sits at her desk, her thoughts bouncing around: love, religion, family, politics, friendship, sex? Nothing sits quite right, it all seems somehow wrong.

Suddenly, the dread arises: it’s all been done before, and she hasn’t lived enough to say something true. She holds up the crippling expectations that come with anonymity; imaginary or real, it makes no difference because it’s real to her. She lives in fear of her own youth, which acts as a weapon against her, limiting her.

She bears the burden of professed naivety as she looks at a world of her own making, a shadow of reality. Her self-contained world does not actually exist, she knows that, but that only creates more tension, building exponentially until finally she has to write, something, anything, everything. Anything to get a release, it doesn’t matter. All is lost without the written word, all loses meaning. She writes because she must. She builds the walls around her mind, she blocks herself at every turn in her imagination. She doesn’t question why, she only acknowledges that she has the power to change it, to adapt her self-contained world to fit on the page, freeing her mind of all constraint. Suddenly she is free to imagine, free to explore, free to live. Now, she is free to write.

The Making of a Writer

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a writer. For a long time, I romanticized the idea as I grappled with the idea of devoting yourself to the written word, pouring your heart out and bearing your soul to the world. But, let’s be honest, sometimes it’s not as grand as all that. Sometimes, it’s just about telling a story, entertaining: escapism. I should have known.

So I would sit in my tiny dorm room, hunched over my laptop, wondering what to write about, too afraid to touch the keys for fear of making a mistake, which only made me feel like a failure for not having written anything, let alone something of value. I came to fear the blank page, the computer screen would just glare at me, and if I did manage to get anything down, I would immediately edit my work into oblivion. Nothing felt genuine, nothing felt right.

And then one day it hit me: I can’t go on calling myself a writer if I don’t write! (A shocking realization, to say the least.) Sure, I had all these ideas floating around my head, but I had yet to really commit them to paper. So today I am resolved to end this odd strike with myself, and write every day, good or bad, inspired or not.

So here’s to a brand new day as a writer, and a blog to go with it.