I used to think that I could casually jot down a few sentences that had caught my eye, and occasionally lose myself in words I thought I’d written well. Whether or not I had enough time, whether exams were just around the corner, I always had the urge to grab a pencil and start drawing, or pick up a pen and write down a sudden flash of inspiration. I last wrote with that kind of abandon back in high school. Every happy, unhappy, moving, or troubling moment went into a little yellow notebook. I admit I don’t even know what kind of writing mine is. I’m not like one of my friends, who loves literature so much that it’s woven into their everyday life. But I believe everyone writes differently. You don’t have to strive for anything in particular: what you write is simply what it is. My word choice and phrasing may not be as striking as other people’s, but I hope what I write is genuine. Maybe one day I’ll get better at it.
