One teen shares why she loves words.
I write to give my thoughts a place to go, to set them free from the contained space that is my brain, for the only destination that makes sense is on paper.
I write to have control in a world that is otherwise run by the brave, the ambitious, the wise, and the innovative. With the written word, I can attempt to be all these things.
I write because I know that I have things to say, questions to ask, ways of life to explore. When I have trouble speaking, which is often, I write. Without this creative outlet, insanity would prevail.
I write to feel my hand ache, to hear the scratch of graphite against paper, to experience the goosebumps that form down my arms when I surprise myself. These things remind me that I am doing what I love to do, what I strive to do.
I write because I’ve been called the teacher’s pet, the goody-two-shoes for choosing to read instead of watching TV. Though I am not typically a spiteful person, I’ll admit: sometimes, I do write with their comments in mind, fueling me toward my own little achievements.
I write for the qualities floating in my mind, the ones that need to be realized, to craft them into figures with names like Shauna and Thomas and Jana, to impregnate my thoughts and eventually give them life (metaphorically, of course — no trips to the hospital necessary).
I write to put my mind at ease, to tame the anxieties and the pleasantries and turn them into something of a cranial stasis.
I write because I am a logophile, a lover of words. I love how they sound, how they look, the way they feel on my tongue. Subpoena. Axis. Chameleon. I even love the words I hate. Moist. Gusto. Delinquent. I do it because there are 1,025,109.8 of them in the English language (yes, there’s an eighth of a word out there, according to Google), so I feel obligated to not let them go to waste.
I write to start a conversation, and to stop one.
Photo: Flickr/SJU undergraduate admissions
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