Reading and writing were two of my strongest subjects throughout el- ementary school—but then again, so were all subjects. Successful aca- demic performance required minimal effort; remaining interested became the most difficult aspect of school. I grew to despise the words cre- ativity, intelligence and potential, as they were labels imposed upon me by an inferior foe.
Armed with my natural opposition to au- thority and my completed homework, I iden- tified the systematic boundaries and quickly tested them. When I reached middle school, my passion for getting kicked out of class remained undiscovered, submerged beneath the façade of satisfactory report cards; unfortunately, my passion for writing also remained undiscovered, submerged beneath the crust of unbearable complacency. Though my writing was saturated with emotion and ego, a spark was needed to ignite my ambition.
I walked into Mrs. Spickler’s classroom in seventh grade and immediately saw my writ- ing strategies crumble. My mind went from a blaze of boredom to an inferno of infuriation. Sure, I wrote my papers on the bus the morn- ing they were due, but who did this lady think she was? She gave me a B when my writing was infinitely better than my
buddy who received an A-. I was determined to master these new standards, to manipulate them to best suit my goals. I predicted that I could simply refine my writing to satisfy my teacher’s expectations. Instead, I discovered that the words creativity, intelligence and potential were not being used to describe me, but were being used against me; they were precisely her expecta- tions.
It was only after I came to this realization that I focused my attention on the system of writing. The “authority figure” became the English language and its op- pressive guidelines. I experimented with concoc- tions of tantalizing wordplay with an aftertaste of intrigue. Through writing, I was able to dis- sect, analyze and construct my thoughts as I did my words. I found a new enemy in the system,and conveniently, a more construc- tive display of my smoldering emotions.
Outside of school, my battle with w r i t i n g conven- tions, my nemeses, soon turned into a complete disregard for them. It no longer satisfied my un- rest to simply work creatively within some proverbial box. I wrote for myself, where I determined the rhythm, the meter, the rules. I controlled the relationship between my writing and me, between my thoughts and myself. I encased my aggression in metaphors and figurative language, my masterpiece of words, and paint- ed vivid mental images. I crafted my words, dis- obediently structured, strategically mysterious, beautifully disturbing, though I did not allow others to behold my art.
As my thoughts materialized on the page, I thought I had won, had taken my rightful place as an authority. As historians, scribes and even cave dwellers have documented, and conse- quently, shaped human existence. I vowed to become a contributor to this cycle. I was truly equipped to change readers’ worlds, their views of reality, with my words. Though the world is substantial, I believed it pos- sible for a lone individual to set it ablaze.
I descended upon Drake from the pedestal I had erected in my mind, emotional, egotistical, equipped with a four-year supply of fuel. I did not consider my reader as an authority, did not care how my reader was translating my words. If I was the only one capable of comprehending the thoughts burning in my mind, it was my reader’s loss. Appreciation for my style was a matter of preference, but the unique connections between myself and my writing, between my writing and my reader, I thought, were separate.
After only a short time, I once again saw my writing strategies crumble; the process of read- ing was missing from my design. I was aware of my difficulties in interpreting my thoughts onto the page, but misplaced the importance of how the words I selected would be interpreted by my reader. If I wanted to change people’s percep- tions of reality, to have my flame scorch its mark on society, I had to be equally, or even more, concerned with my reader.
Reading has prompted me to rethink my writing philosophy. I call myself a writer (and perhaps an aspiring reader). I have become quite self-conscious about my own writing, even as I reread these very words. Indeed, I do have some form of power over my reader, but my reader has an equal, yet distinctly different, power over me. I wonder how my message is being interpreted, how my thoughts are being translated by my reader.
Of course, I must continue to strive to pro- duce writing that draws on emotion and ego, to represent my personal originality in my writing. But as I have recently discovered, I must also remember that if my read- er does not perceive my words the way I intended, I will not succeed in communicating my message.
If I am the only one capable of comprehending the thoughts burning in my mind, it is my loss. I must consider my reader when writing, for my flames may be extinguished upon my death, but it is through my reader that my words will spread like wildfire.
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