To Write | Teen Ink

To Write

May 19, 2010
By BandGeek99 SILVER, Waterford, Connecticut
BandGeek99 SILVER, Waterford, Connecticut
8 articles 12 photos 37 comments

Favorite Quote:
"I hate to write, but I love to have written."
"'Sh! Guys. my mom's on the phone!' Guy in the back of the crowd: 'Pass the weed!'"
"Know Thyself."
"Crying does not show weakness. Since birth, it's been the only sign that we are alive."

"As my inspiration sharpens, my pencil dulls." This is one quote I made that I always reflect on when I'm bent in a rigid state over the flawless canvas of paper. My pencil industriously scars the paper, furiously impressioning it. The eraser cap has almost completely diminished with the constant altering of my concious thoughts. My brow stitched together, words burst into existence from the miniscule tip of graphite that influences the breath of life into each singular line etched into the paper. I seek the innermost sanctums of my mind for just the right selection to pluck like a ripe date, to no avail. My parameters of space to write -- write whatever satisfies my mind -- is empty, void. Only one solemn word is drawn with thirteen years of penmanship skill on the canvas: "The." The. A lone warrior at attention on the battlefield. I don my hands to my head, massaging the temples, groping visually the words my eager mind longed for in bright anticipation. I am in control, I can sculpt my very own figure with my hands and my brain. Then why is nothing being written? Why has nothing shaped itself into living on its own volition? Writers' block. The most lonely state of being in the literal endeavors. Then, out of nowhere, inspiration! Lovely, heavenly, splendid inspiration. Eureka! My hand has grown stiff in its dormancy, but now the gears conjoining my hand to muscle whir rhythmically. Words overflow like water released from a dam onto the page. The faintest crack of a smile absently twists at the corners of my lips. Characters, my own little dolls to which I am the soul pupeteer, play across each simple word, their feet, their hands, their conciousness, all fabricated by my pencil. My pencil: My dearest friend right now. The messenger, the prophet, of my thoughts unto humanity. An inanimate twig of wood, mass-produced in national factories, my arbiter of letter upon letter. Isn't it amazing,amazing that 26 plain, ordinary letters could form such a vast assortment of words and phrases and clauses and thesis and hypothesis and conclusion and foreword and caption and illiteracy and word after word after word? To write is to have lived. To write is to have loved. Anyone can write, but no just anyone can be GREAT at writing. If you enjoy to write as I do, then being renowned for your interests can never be more than a couple hundred words away.

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