I am ten years old. Sitting on the side of my bed, I am contemplating my fate. After all, that very day I had gotten rejected by not one, but by eight boys in my fifth grade class. Unfortunately being uniformed at the time about the complex dynamics of relationships, I assumed that attraction functioned in the same manner as the Florida lottery: the more tickets bought the higher the success rate. Needless to say, I was wrong. At that very moment, as I fantasized about being less of a tomboy so classmates of the opposite sex would stop asking me to play dodge ball and start asking me to school dances, I picked up my diary. I had gotten it that year for my birthday. As I skimmed through the blank pages, it occurred to me that it would be in my best interest to record the day's events. To be frank, it was merely to complain about my miserable existence, lacking attention in the form I sought most. Nevertheless, I began writing.
In the beginning, my hand was shaky, for I was hesitant. This wasn't just any classroom assignment; these were my sentiments in concrete form. Putting them on paper subjected them to criticism which, for an insecure youngster, could be quite intimidating. I also realized, however, that writing gave me a voice. With practice, that voice would become more powerful, and above all, unique.
Consequently, the following year, I was forced to reach a conclusion. There were two distinct writing paths, each of which I could follow: action or inaction. The latter seemed tempting at first because it was far easier to remain concealed in my shell than to burst out of it reciting Shakespeare. However, my desire to be acknowledged overshadowed any lack of confidence, and so in seventh grade, I took the plunge by signing up for a newspaper class and a creative writing club.
Looking back, I can say with certainty it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. From the first time I read a poem out loud to the moment I became Editor in Chief of a literary arts magazine, there was no looking back. It helped me learn that when given a gift, there is no reason to not seize upon it. At first I thought hiding my work from the spotlight was a proper form of modesty. Now I know that doing so was selfish and unnecessary. It is indeed a service when different aspects of a person are revealed and put to use for the betterment of a community.
What I have described above is partly what compels me to dedicate my energy to late nights of critiquing student work for Elysium and hours of rehearsal at IMPACT Theater. It is a form of self-expression, first acknowledged by an angst ridden ten year old girl discovering her muse. In the future I aspire to contribute my talents to this university and my career, because beyond being able to excel at writing, it is truly what I love.