This was an assignment.

Erato + Euterpe + Melpomene + Thalia = Inspiration

Ever since I learned to read, I wanted to write. I can probably chalk this up to the fact that I learned to read aided by the comic strip “Calvin and Hobbes” by Bill Watterson (I believe this is also the most prominent attributing factor to my ridiculous vocabulary and my slightly philosophical approach to the world at large). Most children go through a few phases of “dream jobs” over the course of their youth and adolescence. The typical favorites: astronaut, doctor, lawyer, teacher, firefighter, police officer, veterinarian. I began my cognitive life with the desire to become a writer. Although I did pass through some of these phases (I still secretly aspire to become an astronaut), my heart and soul has always belonged to the romanticized idea of writing.

I can’t pinpoint exactly why I write. As for most people, there isn’t a single motivation behind it. When I was a child, I wrote to discover myself. A rather precocious youth, my writing skills were well beyond my years (I recently found an assignment from first grade that was absurdly indicative of this). The more I wrote, the more I found out about myself. By the time I reached middle school, I had an extremely solidified sense of “self,” primarily because of the time I had spent discovering my own world through writing. From second grade on, I was known throughout my school as “the writer.” This stimulated another facet of my desire to write – entertainment. I wrote ridiculously extravagant stories, always allowing my imagination to get the better of me. In middle school, I branched into poetry. One day in eighth grade Geometry, my friend Carah sent me a note asking me what I thought “love” was. The year before, I had lost my best friend Ben to a car accident, honing my adolescent approach to the subject. In response to her question, I wrote Carah a poem and sent it back her way. Upon reading it, she began crying. It was then that I realized how much I could affect people with what I wrote. I still find myself writing to entertain, although in different ways (at this point I’m really only entertaining myself). My fallback of entertainment writing is haikus. I adore the simplicity of haikus as well as the potential to make them as abstract or poetic as you could possibly desire.

Finally, I suppose that I write (like so many others) to express myself. Whenever I have a surge of emotion, either good or bad, I write. It doesn’t really matter what I write, I just find myself with an insatiable urge to put my thoughts down. When I have an uncharacteristically good day, it goes on my blog. When I’m upset, I surrender myself to an empty piece of paper and a pen. On Tuesday of this week, my mom called me with the news that one of our close family friends had died. Sean McKay, age 28, was shot and killed outside his house by an unstable neighbor from down the street (who proceeded to flee the scene and then shoot himself). He left behind his two children, both under the age of seven, as well as his wife of ten years, Trinity. Although there is never a good time to receive news like this, it came at the worst possible time for me. This week has been the single busiest week of my entire college career, so busy that my mom said she had considered not telling me of Sean’s death. Despite the amount of work I had to do, I needed to write. I needed to vent my heartache, my fury to the only available outlet. Since I heard the news, I’ve taken time to write each day. Because of this I now find myself at 3:23 on Friday morning, shaking from the combination of combating sadness and the caffeine-induced consciousness I am currently experiencing and realizing that I still have “miles to go before I sleep” (Frost).

Writing has and always will be my most sympathetic ally. It accompanies me when I’m content, jovial, or enthused. More importantly, it stands by me when I’m disconsolate, irate, or just tired and crabby. I could not ask for a better companion in all the world.