Why do I want to be a writer? That’s a question I’ve been asking myself for a time, and that has since lost track of itself. I’ve revised, rewritten, retyped, and removed altogether several potential linguistic symphonies from this very page.
To start anew, I began showing enthusiasm towards language when I was in my first high school English course, and my aptitude for writing was recognized a short while later. When I started writing creatively for myself, that’s when I started to develop not only as a writer, but as a person too.
Appropriately, I’ve been reading since I was a relatively young boy. It’s good to say that the abundance of works that I enjoy has scaled appropriately with my love for literature. That is to say, the books I read originate from authors like Shakespeare, Edger Allan Poe, stretching across the vast floor of the local Coles book store, all the way to influences like James Patterson, Nick Hornby, and many others.
Once I had initially discovered how fond I was of writing, it didn’t take too much for me to find myself in a reverie full of inks, parchments and a real sense of self. Trying to compose my own personal masterpieces on paper has always brought that true sense of satisfaction I had been craving. Writing has always been this way for me; it has always been multifaceted. It’s simple and complex, an outlet of creativity and a repertoire of my own personal growth. On the whole, my understanding of language has evolved with my exceeding use of it. It’s relatively inspiring when I can turn things like mere words we throw around casually into my own personal form of art.
My ability to succeed in a career of professional writing is enforced by the experiences that I’ve had, both personal, and academic. Every experience has progressed, attributed to, and impacted my skill and maturity as a writer. For example, in September of 2009, I dedicated myself to publishing one personal blog per week to a website called blogspot (breathandread.blogspot.com). After a couple of months of writing about something as monotonous as my life, it started to become educational. I eventually discovered that the frequency of the renewal for my blogs had not rendered them dry, but perhaps sapped all of the original interest out of them. All of a sudden an adept use of language and a cynical tone wasn’t enough. In attempt to obscure the repetition and the monotony of all the blogs, I had to figure out different techniques of drawing the information out of everyday occurrences and stating the sometimes ‘profound’ relevance in them. This, of all things, was a monumental learning experience.
In conclusion, I recognize that I have not yet reached the plateau of my writing ability. Given the chance, I would value the opportunity of learning from others around me; I would welcome feedback and constructive criticisms with open arms. It would be more than an opportunity to be able to academically widen the horizons of what I write, and how I do it; it would be one of the greatest learning experiences of my life. It would be much more than an ambition to write for a living, it would be what I can only define as purpose.
