Writer's Statement
It was a calm, humid night in the heart of summer. The scene was set for a carefree evening of adventure and vacation bliss, but my world was crashing down around me. Two days earlier, I was relaxing by the pool, soaking up the sun and discussing all of life’s worries with my mother; two days later, her earthly hands touched mine for the last time.
I pride myself on my composure throughout the disastrous summer of 2011 and the years that have followed, but I cannot ignore the void my mother’s passing left within me. She was an English teacher, a lover of all things literary, and it is because of her that I began to write, because of her that I have always felt an undeniable attachment to words. In fact, just like my mother, I do not do well with letting my words go. My English teacher constantly reminds me to “Coco Chanel” my sentences--to remove the superfluous accessories, or, in my case, the endless adverbs and descriptions. While I seem to have a million words for what could arguably be said in ten, there is still a sense of emptiness and isolation in everything that I write. Maybe I’m trying to fill the well of sadness with the words my mother loved, too.
My most recent compositions revolve around characters and narrators who feel alone or just different in some defining way. We share the same fish-out-of-water experiences; since my mother’s passing, I keep searching for the lost piece, and I feel disconnected from the typical teenagers around me. While my personal narrative, “A Full Spectrum,” explores my complete confidence in who I am, I cannot help but feel that my “color” is sometimes a hindrance. I have always appreciated people who make no apologies for who they are; however, it’s not always that easy. Sometimes being different can lead to alienation and loneliness, as Noah learns in my flash fiction story, “Lunchtime.”
While isolation often leads to extremes like self-loathing, such as in my poem “E Pluribus Unum,” I by no means feel that being out of place is always a bad thing. My personal narrative, “Mullets and Livermush,” includes all the elements of small town North Carolina life that make me roll my eyes every day. Although I must admit that I love my home and will always appreciate my Deep South roots, my struggle as a self-acknowledged “Yankee trapped in the South” inspires my craft and allows me to indulge in a humorous, yet endearing tone. Even I cannot help but smile at the customs of eating something called “livermush” and attending slow-paced dirt track races for kicks and giggles.
I hope the authenticity in my writing will elicit emotions ranging from helplessness to empowerment, but that’s not why I write. I write because I, just like my characters, am different. I know what it’s like to be alone--and not alone in that no one is around me. I have always felt an overwhelming sense of love and appreciation from all of my communities, but I don’t feel like I actually belong. I’ve learned, however, that I’m not alone in my struggles. I hope that through my writing, I can show my readers that life is about adapting to surroundings, and even changing them if necessary.
So I’m thankful for the trials; without them I would have nothing to say. And I’m thankful for the darkness; the darkness is why I write. It gives me the words that I would never dare say out loud and the characters born of my subconscious--the true reflections of the ego-rooted weaknesses my id would never display for the world to see. I can’t say if my mother’s passing completely invented the writer in me, but I do know that her literary fascination and her innovative mind were, in that moment, reborn in me. While I try my best to parallel the self-acceptance and confidence of my literary idol, Zora Neale Hurston, there’s always that little bit of Sylvia Plath insanity and frustration within me--and it’s through writing that I set her free.
I pride myself on my composure throughout the disastrous summer of 2011 and the years that have followed, but I cannot ignore the void my mother’s passing left within me. She was an English teacher, a lover of all things literary, and it is because of her that I began to write, because of her that I have always felt an undeniable attachment to words. In fact, just like my mother, I do not do well with letting my words go. My English teacher constantly reminds me to “Coco Chanel” my sentences--to remove the superfluous accessories, or, in my case, the endless adverbs and descriptions. While I seem to have a million words for what could arguably be said in ten, there is still a sense of emptiness and isolation in everything that I write. Maybe I’m trying to fill the well of sadness with the words my mother loved, too.
My most recent compositions revolve around characters and narrators who feel alone or just different in some defining way. We share the same fish-out-of-water experiences; since my mother’s passing, I keep searching for the lost piece, and I feel disconnected from the typical teenagers around me. While my personal narrative, “A Full Spectrum,” explores my complete confidence in who I am, I cannot help but feel that my “color” is sometimes a hindrance. I have always appreciated people who make no apologies for who they are; however, it’s not always that easy. Sometimes being different can lead to alienation and loneliness, as Noah learns in my flash fiction story, “Lunchtime.”
While isolation often leads to extremes like self-loathing, such as in my poem “E Pluribus Unum,” I by no means feel that being out of place is always a bad thing. My personal narrative, “Mullets and Livermush,” includes all the elements of small town North Carolina life that make me roll my eyes every day. Although I must admit that I love my home and will always appreciate my Deep South roots, my struggle as a self-acknowledged “Yankee trapped in the South” inspires my craft and allows me to indulge in a humorous, yet endearing tone. Even I cannot help but smile at the customs of eating something called “livermush” and attending slow-paced dirt track races for kicks and giggles.
I hope the authenticity in my writing will elicit emotions ranging from helplessness to empowerment, but that’s not why I write. I write because I, just like my characters, am different. I know what it’s like to be alone--and not alone in that no one is around me. I have always felt an overwhelming sense of love and appreciation from all of my communities, but I don’t feel like I actually belong. I’ve learned, however, that I’m not alone in my struggles. I hope that through my writing, I can show my readers that life is about adapting to surroundings, and even changing them if necessary.
So I’m thankful for the trials; without them I would have nothing to say. And I’m thankful for the darkness; the darkness is why I write. It gives me the words that I would never dare say out loud and the characters born of my subconscious--the true reflections of the ego-rooted weaknesses my id would never display for the world to see. I can’t say if my mother’s passing completely invented the writer in me, but I do know that her literary fascination and her innovative mind were, in that moment, reborn in me. While I try my best to parallel the self-acceptance and confidence of my literary idol, Zora Neale Hurston, there’s always that little bit of Sylvia Plath insanity and frustration within me--and it’s through writing that I set her free.