I have briefly mentioned it in the past, but it may still come as a shock to you, the reader: I used to detest writing.
Yes, it’s true. I hated having to write because I mostly saw it as either punish work or busy work, the times which I was required to write anything.
I’ll admit that many times my writing requirements indeed were simply administered as either punish work or busy work that which I [unsuccessfully] avoided at all costs.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen years old on the evening of April 10, 2003, that I had attempted to write something for enjoyment.
The wonderful emotions I felt during and after writing a love story and the most positive reactions I received, especially from the girls, were the encouragement that caused me to continue.
I am now thirty going on thirty-one at the time of me writing this piece and I’ll say that I now love to write. It’s almost as if I have a brief chance to feel what it’s like to be God when I create something from nothing. Well, it’s not completely from nothing, rather it is fueled by my constant observations and imagination.
As soon as I could spell and use a pencil or pen, my parents would make me write lines every time I did something they didn’t like. Most of the time it was for minute offenses, like using foul language or jumping off the backyard swingset. One time, however, it was for simply laughing at graffiti written on playground equipment. I got whipped for the more serious stuff.
It was no different at school. I attended an extremely strict roman catholic school and we were constantly under the threat of punitive writing if we stepped even slightly out of line. When we didn’t have to do punish work, it seemed we were forever writing poems, short stories and reports. Supposedly this was to “prepare us for college” however I think it was more or less to keep us busy and out of trouble during nonschool hours for no other reason than to keep the school’s reputation clean and spotless. We were in school from nine in the morning until three something in the afternoon, with only thirty minutes total for recess and twenty minutes for lunch. Then after school, on most days, there were another five hours of homework. In the lower grades, there was no homework on the weekends, but this changed around fourth grade.
My family didn’t [permanently] have a computer until I was thirteen. That meant, up until that point any time I had to write a paper, which was quite frequent, I had to do it by hand. I did show a few signs of dysgraphia as a child, the most frequent one being the extreme pain in the hand while writing. It’s almost as if the teachers and administrators at this school knew writing [by hand] was painful for me, but they somehow derived a sick sadistic pleasure out of it. Yes, I am quite paranoid, but this school was extremely corrupt and didn’t take well to me or my kind.
By this point in my life, I had fostered an attitude of loathing and resentment towards any and all forms of writing. The fact that I get any enjoyment from writing now is a miracle in and of itself. I still suffer from dysgraphia as an adult, in fact, it hurts like hell to write anything by hand, but luckily I feel no pain when typing on a computer.
After my family purchased a computer, I did as much school work as possible on it, knowing that it wouldn’t be painful to push buttons instead of writing by hand. In the summer of 2001, at age fourteen and a half, I got into web design, albeit very basic. By age sixteen I had designed a few web pages, mostly on the Express Page server. I had my personal web page with my contact information, but later I had a page designed for scanner listeners in Louisiana.
In the early spring of 2003, things were changing. I was at a different school, a much more urbane school, though it is still roman catholic. I began to appreciate literature, after being exposed to it in a more pleasant way. Also, creativity was beginning to flourish in my mind and heart. I designed a secret webpage with very short love stories written on it. It was an immediate success, almost overnight, at least with my peers.
The girls loved it and the guys did too, at least to some degree, though they probably would not admit it.
Those types of reactions were what kept my creative fire burning, though sometimes it’s bright like the sun and other times it’s dimmer than a flashlight with exhausted batteries.
As far as I can see, I’ll keep on writing from now on unless I run out of ideas. If that day ever comes, then I’ll just broaden my horizons, I guess.
Thank you for taking the time to read this, I greatly appreciate your attention!