Me reading Oliver Twist for homework

People always say things about the way you write. So don’t ever change.

It is very stereotypical for a writer to write about this topic, and yet if one does not write about it, its seems that the writer is not a good one. Alas, here I write.

When I first started writing, I was around 10 years old. I suppose I created stories more than wrote, but nonetheless, I still have my journals in which I wrote out in cursive detailed dreams and fabrications of ideas. I suppose I write the same way now, at least for my story/novel writing. (Yes, there is something in the works now.) One work in particular is written long-hand in a binder. The other is literally being written in Google Docs. It boils down to when I was inspired to start writing the story. My first story is long-hand because I didn’t have a computer on hand. My second story is on a computer because I was on my computer when I started researching for it.

Anyway, when I hit high school and started this blog as a Junior in high school, I was was at a very low point in my life. So, my writing was raw and real. It was not bad writing. It was dismal. It was a reflection on my state of mind at the time. I remember my father saying how depressing the writing was, and while I am sure it was intended to be constructive criticism, I remember being very much piqued. Writing cannot be only cheery after all. I appreciated the feedback, but if anything, I became more intent to keep my writing intense and deep. I am contrary like that.

However, after I broke consistency on this blog, I began to come out of the shadows a bit. My mental health was on the rise, as well as my faith. It seemed the two went hand in hand. My Freshman year of college passed, my faith very strong. I did not write much because I was so preoccupied with work and forming new friendships. I was devoured by a toxic relationship, and (again, stereotypical for us writers) after we broke up, it was difficult for me to find meaning in life. Yes, I still loved the Lord and believed Him to be my Savior. I even understand that suffering is a part of life. I just couldn’t understand how I let myself get into that situation and how I ever let things get the way they were. Some part of me told me to stop blaming myself; he was the one who took advantage of me. While I could have been more assertive, I knew over time that he had manipulated me into believing that I was experiencing true love.

Throughout the whole relationship, I felt a small voice that chattered constantly about how the relationship was a bad one and how something was off. I even used to run away from him before we dated sometimes when I hated talking to him. He reminded me too much of myself. But I ignored the voice. And even now, almost two years later, things have revealed themselves to me that only verify my feelings of trepidation with him. I sensed that things were always wrong, but now I now for sure that they were. I should have gone with my gut. Hindsight is the best sight.

Such writing in the paragraph above is the sort of writing I used to utilize as a depressed writer. And sometimes, like many others, I do write like this. I am only human. I experience sadness, hurt, and heartache. I cannot say that I have ever been accused of writing “too happily”, so I am unqualified to speak about it from the writer’s point of view. However, I have caught myself when reading certain writers and commenting on how they are being way too innocent and idealistic. Perhaps this is just present-day me hating idealistic tendencies. After all, those are what got me into that mess.

The point of this article is that no matter what, people will always have criticism on you, your work, your writing, your art, and your life. You might as well make it something you’re proud of.

Sincerely,