Week one, first Creative Strategist class. I sat excited and nervous in the strange yellow seat, soaking up everything that was going on. In this soaking, however, there was something that made me twitch. “You’re all writers,” Deb said.
I’d always opposed the idea of writing for some reason. I’d get A’s on the papers I cranked out through high school, but I never enjoyed it very much. Creative writing assignments made me groan, and when I started telling people I was going into the Journalism school at UO and they’d say, “Oh so you want to write?” I would be quick to answer, “No, no, I’m not sure exactly what I want to do yet, but not the writing.”
But greeted with this slightly daunting fact the first day of class, I set off to accept being a writer. But throughout the term, I realized I didn’t have much to accept. Through this blog, as well as further examining the things I already did and enjoyed, I saw that I was, in fact, a writer: I had simply been working with an incredibly narrow definition of what a writer is before.
I’ve always enjoyed journaling and free writing. Whether it was a silly diary filled up dramatized scenarios about my middle school crushed, or the stream of consciousness rambling that appears on my blog today, I have a need to get my thoughts out this way since at times I’m not much of a talker.
I also eat up things that other writers say, whether it’s in their own works or just in general (see my post on my love of quotes). I love this post on Kurt Vonnegut’s advice for writers, and I always get excited when my Spanish classes have a section on Pablo Neurda's Poems. I pick out lines I love from my favorite songs and scrawl them on pieces of paper and stick them to my bulletin boards, even if anyone else that enters my room doesn’t know where it’s from.
In conclusion, I’d have to say that one of the best things I’ve taken away from this class is realizing that I am a writer, albeit in my own way. While I shied away from it before, it’s safe to say that now it is fully embraced.