As a child, I always wrote. I wrote stories, plays, and even a small column for a local newspaper. So, naturally, everyone thought I’d become a writer. What they didn’t know was that most of what I wrote was awful. The most awful writing I ever did was as an angst filled teen.
As a teenage girl, I was the queen of unrequited “love”. To cope with these heart breaks, I’d write stories about these relationships. The stories would always revolve around the exact same plot line. Young boy is in love with the wrong girl, this girl inevitably wrongs the young boy, and loyal female friend is there to comfort and help the young boy to cope. Suddenly, young boy would see loyal female friend in a new light and finally realize she was who he loved all along. (Yes, I know this is the plot of a Taylor Swift song or several Taylor Swift songs, so it may be awful, but it definitely can sell.)
I would work for hours on these stories. Hidden in my garret (well, actually my cellar but since I always wanted to be Jo March, I thought imagined it was a garret), I’d fill pages and pages of yellow legal paper (sometimes tear-stained for effect) with these ridiculous stories.
Today, however, I see these awful stories for what they really were. They were my way of coping with loss and disappointment. They were my way of trying to make meaning of my disappointing life and survive it. They may have not been worth publishing, but the time spent writing them wasn’t a waste.
I didn’t fulfill my early dreams of being a published writer, but I did learn that writing, like breathing, helps me to live.
teachandwrite 