I will try to relate what writing is to me.

From the first piece of prose I ever put out I have been given accolades as a good writer, both of fiction and of plain, reporting. All through growing up writing has been one of the few skills which people will always pick up on as one of my strong suits.

I admit, my grammar was what I pieced together when sleeping through middle school English class. My spelling is all intuitive and has its quirks. But these things are not what people have given me acclaim for, no, it is my style. But even that word is not quite it. No, I believe essence is more fitting.

I have never relished in the act of writing something. Be it a story I had just thought up, or some new idea, or just a history final. It is not because I do not enjoy the feeling while it happens. I can not describe that feeling fully, but I will try.

If I sit infront of a keyboard (my handwriting is illegible-nigh) and have a writing assignment, at first, my only thoughts are "I can't do this", "I cannot do this," "I don't know how!" This goes on for a few minutes, then, suddenly...


Like a bursting spring suddenly it all just starts to flow out. The best metaphor I can muster for this experience is it is as if my mind had crawled from its solitude within the confines of my brain, and spilled out unto paper, for the whole world to gawk at. During this period I honestly do not feel concious, my entire focus is on the writing, my hands go faster, and faster, and thoughts with them. Off, into space, unto paper.

Then, when it's over, things settle back down. The sensation is, at first, much what it feels like when you stop reading a book after hours of uninterrupted effort. Surreal. "Oh yeah, there's that world thing out there..." But here comes one of the few reasons why I don't like this act. After the surreal sensation is over I feel totally drained. My brain is kaput, I can only rest. I can't read, I can't think, I can't do anything but rest. This can take hours, even days, and I truly despise it.

I am also very good at math, and, if anything, doing mathematics only revitalizes me. Thus, I have naturally gravitated towards science over writing. But wait, there's more...

After I write something, I dread showing it to others. I don't really care what they think, honest. But, at the same time, I can't bare to be criticized. I suppose the above analogy can help me rationalize this. Imagine, if you will, that part of your soul had been put on paper. Now imagine if someone laughed at it. Yeah, you got it.

It's not that your soul, or your essence that is inferior, I don't believe that. But the idea that someone could make mockery of something so dear to you is wrenching. It makes me ill even thinking about it right now.

What's so odd, and so paradoxical about all of this is that, as I noted above, people have never been hesitant to praise my writing. But all of this praise falls on deaf ears. All the lifting up in the world can't replace the anger, the rage, that can boil within me from one casual criticism. I cannot stand to lose myself like that, over something so silly. So I don't put myself in that position. I don't write.

I don't know. I'm a very left-brained person. My life is in numbers and theory. I like it that way. Perhaps what I have written above is, in fact, the artistic experience. Perhaps, these sensations are what people find so desirable and fascinating about art. Perhaps this is what people see when they praise me.

Perhaps, if I sat down and purseud writing I would come to love it. Infact, I do not believe that it is "perhaps," I know I could come to love writing. I know I could sit down one day, start typing, and never come back. But I don't want to. This conflict, it is too great a paradox, to yearn for something and yet to hate it. I will be content in running away, I think.