By LAURA SANCHEZ, Opinions Editor
I wanted to be a writer when I was younger. I loved the idea of writing books, dreaming away into fairylands and fictionalized worlds, and producing content with some clacking computer keys and countless cups of coffee. But that was my version of an idealized author’s environment. In my head, being a writer meant spending hours shut away in a musty room, with endless pots of coffee, typewriters and meowing cats keeping me company. It wasn’t real, and I really couldn’t do it. I wanted to read the stories that were swimming around in my head, but not necessarily write them. I couldn’t bring myself to finish writing stories that I started, or write down all of the ideas that were skirting around in my brain. So I moved on to other dreams and passions, but writing was always the what-if, the maybe-I-can, the one that might have gotten away.
As the years passed, I began to feel insecure with my writing, always wondering if I still had ‘it’. I’d always gotten compliments on my writing style and technique, but I always wondered if I received those compliments because I deserved them, or because I was always that ‘writer girl’, the emblematic, nerdy girl who always had a piece of paper and pen in hand. I still wonder that.
I stopped writing fiction and short stories, and just concentrated only on the writing that I needed to produce to get by in school. But then I realized that writing itself couldn’t go away. My fingers itched to type, my brain had an urge to start whirring away, and my mouth had an insatiable desire to reread my words aloud, reveling in the simplicity and beauty I thought I could produce.
Even though I’m still highly insecure about my writing abilities, and cringe just about every time I sit down to write something new, I just decided to go for it. I decided to start writing again, to write for others rather than myself, and to restart a part of my life that had been absent for a while. This is the reason that I’m here, writing articles a week at a time, trying to reconnect with the words. It’s not always easy, and I’m always scrambling at the last minute to construct the perfect sentence, but it somehow comes rushing out in the end.
A while ago, if you had told me that I would be writing an article a week, for the entirety of the student population to see and read, I would have said, “Ha! I wish.” I had been in awe of the fact that other people would publish their words without any qualms, because I thought I couldn’t. No one necessarily cared about what I wrote, and what if what I wrote was WRONG?
Well, things change. Maybe no one necessarily cares about what I write about now, but that doesn’t make it seem less important or even wrong. Sometimes I write about petty issues in my life that seem insignificant, and other times I do try to relay my strong opinions about certain subjects. But they’re all MY opinions and MY stories, and I’m just happy to have an outlet for them. Writing is my outlet, and one of my fortes, and one of the things that makes me happy.