The concept seems so simple, but in examining my own work, I realize I have never written for the audience. My diaries are the prime example; sometimes I share my entries with someone for clarification about an event or as entertainment at much later dates. But I crave to write these daily musings just to get down my thoughts, to speak when no one is there to listen. To talk out the course of events and record what has been bothering me--though I know it’s silly--or what intrigues me--though I know I’m way too observant for my own good. Most importantly, I write in order to remember the moments that have had the largest impact on me. In addition to my diaries, my poetry screams self-fulfillment and self-discovery; I have never written those words for anyone else but myself. Maybe that’s why I always cringe when my friends jokingly serenade me with my own words when they are printed in some literary magazine, as if having them come from someone else’s mouth would kill their meaning. And maybe it’s better that no one will ever understand my words. If anyone tried to, he’d probably be left anxious and confused, waiting for another allusion he is familiar with. But it’s not about them; it’s about trying to figure out what the hell is going on in my head. And sometimes it’s about documenting something so beautiful that to just write in prose would not be doing the moment justice. Maybe I send out my poetry to perplex people. (Do they even try to understand?) What I guess I am saying is that if I ever thought I wrote for the public, I had my self fooled.
My sophomore year experience is proof that the successful pieces come from true understanding and conveyance of that understanding, for it was that year I won the writer’s prize. Off of the top of my head right now, I cannot tell you what the title of the poem was. However, the critical point is that I wrote it days before Michael left in September 1999. Yes, that was so long ago, but it was probably the time when I was most honest with myself and very much on the edge. When I try to read the piece now, I laugh because I was 15 and could not have imagined any of what has happened since then. But in truth, I know I should admire my honesty at that “young” age. It was me in that piece. Though I felt sabotaged as the words were read aloud at the assembly, I know now that part of the feeling came from embarrassment by my openness to the whole assembly. My utter understanding transcended onto the audience so easily, only when I was honest with myself. So I guess I shouldn’t be saying that I have never won the award, but in some ways I feel that I tricked myself into winning because I was still writing for myself.
This year, another year, I left empty-handed from the writer’s day assembly. Back when I was in middle school, my heart would pound through the whole assembly. Then it would accelerate and peak when the titles of the winning pieces were read aloud. After hearing the names of my talented classmates, my head would slip into nothingness; I could never tell you what any of the winning pieces were because after hearing anyone else’s name but mine, I just couldn’t care any longer. (Selfish, I know.) My heart would then swell into disappointment. By junior year, I had my heart under better control, though hearing there were five winners—and having my heat peak at every name that wasn’t mine—made my heart more active than ever before. This time was different, though; I sat on the ledge in front of the window and felt the wind batter against my back. The breeze touched my face soothingly, reminding me that this was not the only matter to prove my self-worth. After my realization that morning, there was no reason to be nervous. In my heart I knew my pieces were not going to win the praise of the English teachers—though Mrs. Dunkley said the department enjoyed reading all of them, but I cannot help but wonder how often they cringe at the unbearable pieces—because I was writing for myself. I should not be upset because my personal understanding and “betterment” has come from those pieces, those pieces that perhaps are better not being read by my peers.
I realized it takes a lot of skill, craft, and awareness to truly write for someone else. I have to see myself, first. I’m not trying to say that I no longer have a sense of self, for that is not the case at all. However, I realize that whatever I submit to the public, it must be true. Simple. That openness is what others understand and imagine. Unlike past years when I have felt letdown because I did not win anything, this year I realized something that will influence me and my talent from now until I stop writing. But that won’t be happening any time soon…
The mind is not a vessel to be filled
but a fire to be kindled --Plutarch