Once upon a time there was a little girl in the fifth grade whom sucked at writing. You see, in her elementary school they wanted a head start on showing their kids what middle school was going to be like so they gave them four classes that they would rotate with their classmates to. This particular student had the writing class as her homeroom, and it was terrible. Her teacher was from New York with a thick accent and had that strict and brutally honest atmosphere about her that could scare any young kid. The child missed school sometimes and got left behind in the lectures and her lame writing skills became apparent. The mother of the girl was forced to put her into tutoring with the Brooklyn women that went on to show her the essence of writing and its ways of developing the world. The kid she taught? That was me.
I had a lot of difficulty in writing, however my fifth grade homeroom teacher made it seem like everyone did. She would ask me how crazy I thought it was to learn how to write well, and that someone teaching it had to be insane. For real though she scared the living shit out of me. My fear in her developed and changed into bliss as my attitude in writing did, and she taught me that you have to take risks to get anywhere– in life and in writing. “Writing is a part of life,” she told me countless times. Everywhere you go you must know what neon store signs scream and which way the door tells you it opens. This is reading, but without it there wouldn’t be writing. Putting a mechanical pencil in one hand and an imagination full of Pokemon and the reach of the universe in the other, I truly began to start my journey into storytelling. I loved fiction writing and despised writing about anything in real life. That spirit about me didn’t change until about eighth grade where I began to discover life as more than just breathing and doing. Don’t get me wrong, I was still a sociopathic creature like everyone else in the eighth grade and not some whimsical free spirit yet, but that’s when I truly learned to stop dwelling on things you can’t change. Yes this is when I really started to like graffiti and I do think of it as an important stepping stone in my writing history.
I never wrote on walls, truthfully. I still have the blackbooks full of sloppy and swirling letters that tell stories of my trapped thoughts and opinions. They’re a little bit embarrassing, and I continued to do them for only a few years, but they made me feel amazing. I’d scribble about my problems and stress I was facing. ‘Nonsense’ would be the correct defining word of it all. I wrote about how unfair the government treats their people and how we can change things like this if we all have a voice in harsh, sharp letters using straight-to-the-point words. This was a very negative experience for awhile since I also wrote about my mom with the teenage hormones you absolutely have no control over whilst being thirteen and fourteen years old; my parents had divorced later on inevitably and coping was all the much easier with my dozens of illegible throw ups I could never develop. I didn’t like my tagging though. What I really appreciated were my pieces I drew and the colors I painted them with that were signed by ‘Toy.’ Maybe that isn’t considered writing, but there were words there and the meanings went deeper than the pen could express. Such a bad thing turned into a great thing because it not only was reliving to do, other people would praise me for the gibberish I was drawing and I felt proud of writing for the first time in a long time. Since you have seen that I’ve took a part in graffiti writing, you have all the right to stereotypically assume that I didn’t participate exceptionally in school and didn’t do the work I was assigned very often.
Every essay I’ve ever written in high school was done the night before. Call me an overachiever. Many of my English teachers loathed me because English is super boring and the easiest class to sleep in. I like reading and I actually do enjoy writing but I’ve had a lazy schooling experience and writing a one page essay about Of Mice And Men was not compelling in the slightest. (I’ve been assigned to read that book three out of four years in high school since I jumped around schools.) Junior year’s last essay was done the day it was due in my fourth hour painting class, but it was unhesitatingly my best. I don’t even remember the prompt. Maybe it was about a life changing experience because I wrote about my Diabetes, who even knows.. But I remember how much fun I had writing it. The charisma I had felt in me was warm and bursting, for I was able to tell about a time I learned something very important to me and my life. After it was graded the teacher came up to me after class to inform me that I was a very smart girl. I’ll never forget how special it was, especially since it was coming from someone whom clearly didn’t always appreciate my presence in the classroom. I spent most of my high school career not doing many productive things but at that moment I knew I had actually been evolving in my writing and I was blind to it a majority of the time. Senior year is the year I had the absolute worst English teacher and hence my first blog was created.
Tumblr is really awesome; I don’t know if you understand this. It’s a thousand times better than wordpress and for more than the reason that this website makes you pay thirty bucks just so that you may choose the color of your text. Last year I wanted to write my thoughts down but not on paper because I still live with my dad and having him discover a journal type of diary could potentially end me. My thoughts don’t have a filter and honestly neither does my mouth but that’s besides the point. I used to only reblog pictures on Tumblr but I then created a private blog to type out exciting adventures I was participating in at the time. I wrote, and still write, my evaluations on situations I live and see and post about a boy I care about a lot and stress my concerns about the things he endures on a daily basis. My friends wouldn’t mind my rambles, for they aren’t judgmental people and all five of them love me unconditionally, but writing it out feels so good and I can go back and see exactly what I was thinking on that specific day. It makes me happy and you should always do the things that make you the happiest.
At home I have my computer, iPad, and my speakers set out on my desk. Music will always play a role in my writing. Not because of the lyrics but because there aren’t any– I love my electronic dance music. The Showtek brothers are my heroes. It gets me pumped and prepares me for writing that is never dull but enthusiastic and allows me to find the things that are hiding in the back of my mind and bring them forth into the light and let them shine.