Growing up in a somewhat-traditional sort-of-Indian household, education has always been my priority. When I was first introduced to writing, it seemed like it was just another subject to excel at. It was like math, but with letters instead of numbers. But, it was basic - too simple to be interesting. Regardless, I continued to follow my teachers’ lessons on writing and grammar, but didn’t care about the content of the writing. At the same time, I didn’t speak. I hated to talk in groups or even one-on-one to a stranger. I’d talk normally to my close friends and direct family, but mumbled when asked a question in my classes. So, when I was given my first creative writing assignment, it was astonishing how much I had to say. Writing was the voice I lacked, all the words I wasn’t able to say aloud was conveyed so fluently on a piece of paper. Writing was, and still is, my main form of communication.
I was incredibly shy as a kid. I’d hide behind my mom or dad when being introduced to someone, or whisper in my mom’s ear to have her say the things I didn’t have the confidence to say myself. I was considered the “mute” in my family and my class. The game ‘telephone’ always comes to my mind when I had to communicate to someone outside my circle of friends. I’d say something to someone to tell to someone else, which, in turn, told the message to the destined recipient. Of course, if you’ve played this game, the original message always was misinterpreted, so my form of communication was limited. I chose not to speak and I wasn’t too fond of writing. Eventually, something had to give.
My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Gilbert, asked our class to write a short story on, of what I recall, a rock. I thought it was incredibly dumb at first. Who can come up with an amazing story about a rock? Well, turns out, I could. When my idea hit me, I wrote and filled up not a page, not even two or three pages, but seven full pages about a schoolgirl who discovers a magical rock that grants her three wishes her heart desires. I was exceptionally proud of myself and amazed at what I was able to do with only a few pieces of paper, a pen, and my thoughts. Mrs. Gilbert continued to give us creative writing assignments and I continued to write my stories. The more I wrote, the more I “spoke.” I found a comfort in writing, a confidence that speech was never able to provide.
Writing helped me transition speech into my main form of communication within the next couple of years. It doesn’t count for much, but being unable to talk to my best friend during class, we wrote ridiculously long notes to one another. And since I wasn’t able to convey my personality through orally, it had to shine through verbally. In these notes, my sense of humor appeared quirkier and all my stories seemed more dramatic than they originally were (which explains why I’m such a drama queen today). I was no longer the shy, quiet girl in my writing, but rather an obnoxious, quite humorous teenager (or preteen at that time). Oddly enough, the personality in my writing was carried into reality. My life began to imitate my words and soon enough, I was the girl who couldn’t shut up in class. Writing helped me bring out the other side of my personality and in essence, induced another source of communication.
Since I was now christened a “chatterbox,” my writing gradually declined. I now had the confidence to speak, so why waste my words on print? However, as cliché as it sounds, the words that really mattered, I couldn’t say aloud. So naturally, I put them on paper. I remember getting into a huge fight with my mom during my freshmen year of high school and we didn’t speak to each other for a couple of weeks. We were both way too proud to ever think of uttering the words “I’m sorry” to one another, so I had to get creative. I went back to my old form of communication and wrote her story about a daughter who doesn’t know how to literally function without her mom. Knowing how both my mom and I are, I’m pretty sure an “I’m sorry” would’ve assuaged the situation for a couple of days, but my story had both an immediate and long-lasting effect. Even after I’ve distanced myself from writing for over a year, it was still a crucial medium in my life.
It wasn’t until my junior year in high school when I realized the type of writer I had the potential to be. I was taught by one of the best English teachers, who’s every little writing peeve was instilled and engraved in my head and subconscious. I was more aware of what I wanted to say and took my time to write it. I clarified all my thoughts before I even picked up a pen. I made sure to be as simple and precise as possibly, without being redundant and babbly. It shaped me to be a writer, although again, it did have an effect on my speech, this time in a not so positive way. Instead of saying whatever was on my mind, I took my time to voice my thoughts. While I can spend all the time in the world thinking about what to write with no virtual affects, nobody was patient enough to listen to what I had to say. So again, I shied away, not willing to waste anyone’s time, but my own. For the second time in my life, writing became my main form of communication and stayed that way into the present.
To this day, I can’t go a day without some form of writing. Whether it’s updating my status of Facebook or Twitter, or jotting down a quick short story I come up with during the day, I write. My relationship with writing has taken a few hits and blows, but its function has never changed. My pen takes on what my vocal chords sometimes fail to do and it succeeds every time. Writing is my voice.
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