My Writing

When I was in sixth grade, I started writing about a character called Mr. Bennet. Almost every story involving him had an accident as the climax, from motorcycles crashing to losing the winning lottery ticket down a storm drain. His actions reflected my frustration, anger, sadness, and lack of self-confidence, in part due to spastic right-side hemiplegia, a condition that prevented me from participating in sports. By seventh grade, Mr. Bennet had become a caricature of myself, and I’d stopped writing about him. In writing about his troubles, I’d exorcized many of my own.

In eighth grade, I wrote about him in class again at the request of a classmate. Mr. Bennet stories no longer ended in motorcycle crashes, but with him standing up from the wreckage and walking away. And I saw that my writing could do something more–make other people laugh. I heaved myself from the grasp of the doldrums.

Armed with this new lease on life, I wanted to do something greater in the summer between eighth and ninth grade. The answer came as a vision of a dark alley and a lone figure stepping from the shadows. Suddenly, I knew what I wanted to write next.

That June, my imagination swirled with ideas, and I began writing a novel. But when would the story be set? I found the answer in the form of an alternate history in 1920s Austria-Hungary. After some barebones research, I spent most of freshman year writing action that led from one city to the next–with train chases, massive explosions and airplane dogfights in between–but I got so caught up in the currents of my imagination that my initial goal of creating a historical fiction novel fell by the wayside. Rather than writing a historical novel, I had written an adventure story.

In response, I doubled down on the historical aspect, researching everything from the Swiss intelligence apparatus in the 1920s to the platforms of Austro-Hungarian political parties. Engrossed, I swung too far in the other direction. By focusing too much on history, I constrained my imagination and deprived the novel of excitement and energy.

After a few months, I stopped working on it; I was lost. I wallowed for a time, then stepped back and thought about both versions and came to a conclusion: I had to walk the fine line between historicity and imagination.

I discovered that history and imagination could work in tandem as I worked on draft three. I found that historical conflict could raise the stakes higher than any of my fictional ideas. Imagination, by the same token, could enrich the past with a bit of creativity. I loved writing as a way to meld the fictional and the historical together, which helped me see reality in a more diverse and unique light.

At the same time, I became fascinated with essays. I saw the power to explain concepts in works such as Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. Studying it, I realized I had a long way to go as a writer, but I still felt I could help my peers using what I had learned. Subsequently, I started monthly peer-to-peer tutoring sessions.

I started out trying to help with grammar or sentence structure, and I soon found myself conveying my thoughts on the art of writing. I finally understood what a powerful tool I had at my fingertips, one that could not only tell stories, but also share ideas, prompt discussions, and help others discover their thoughts. My writing could not only entertain through fiction and history but also educate others about my worldview in the process.

With that realization, I perceived the inadequacies of my latest draft. My experiences could help others view writing differently and also help them make the journey out of their defensive shells. Through my writing, I had started to become something I never thought possible: a guide.