13 August 2017.

It was my eleventh birthday. My brother Gabriel knocked on my bedroom door and whispered, “Psst. Emma. Come here, I have something to show you.” My eyes suddenly widened at the thought of potentially receiving a gift, and I excitedly guessed, “Ooh, are you finally showing me my long-awaited present?”

Gabriel nonchalantly shrugged and replied, “Who knows?” He then instructed me to close my eyes while he led me to the location of the object. When I finally opened my eye, I fixed my gaze onto a pink object. After adjusting to the lighting of the room, I concluded that this pink object was a journal. Gabriel had gifted me a beautiful Moleskine Limited Edition Journal with a cover of Alice in Wonderland titled, “Who in the World Am I?”

When sixth-grader Emma received her first journal, she discovered her love for writing: she devoured the pages, writing down all of her thoughts and feelings. She would write countless short stories about wizards, fantasies, and anything one could name of. Her journal would contain entries from A-Z. There would be entries about the food she ate during the day, her day-to-day activities, exciting news, and even about the tragic death of her dearest golden retriever, Brandy.

My parents remarked that the eleven-year-old Emma would constantly whip out a medium where she could write, whether that be a single piece of paper or a journal, and endlessly write nonsensical, hilarious stories until her hands and fingers would feel sore and weary. Nevertheless, she still kept on writing. Whenever Emma held a pen in her hand and neatly tied her hair into a ponytail, that would indicate that she would start writing. Once she started writing with deep concentration, her mother would have to actually drag her away from the table to remind her to eat during mealtimes. If somebody sneakily peered at Emma’s notebook whilst she was busily writing on her desk, she would quickly shoo them away and warn: “Please, go away. This is top-secret business.”

As seen in the previous scenes, writing was a safe haven for my younger self. Writing was my passion. Writing was my whole world. Writing was where I could escape from reality and freely express myself without talking to anybody face-to-face. However, as time passed, I wrote less and less– the older Emma appeared to be burdened by writing– as time went on, the Alice in Wonderland journal where I used to write in without stopping were barely filled with pages. Not only was my love for writing seem to be diminishing, but I would also not care to find the time to write stories anymore. Perhaps I had grown out of writing silly stories? But no, it was as if the passion I once had for writing was gradually fading away like a petal falling from a dying, wilting flower that once used to be fresh and alive. Why was this so? Writing– writing seemed like a chore.

14 October 2022.
“Aah. Phooey!” I exclaimed.

My one-thousand-word essay about Augustine on the issue of good and evil for my theology class was due in three days, and since I was traveling out of town for most of the weekend, I was incredibly stressed. What a wonderful situation I have placed myself in, I sarcastically joked inside my mind. Whenever an essay was due, I would always delay the process of writing the essay and avoid it until the deadline was in a few days. Although I had already written my thesis statement and understood the general idea of the prompt, I was baffled on how to tackle the structure of the essay: writing this essay would be a challenging task.

Why is writing such a hard, boring task? I wish I had the same passion little me had,” I complained to myself whilst reminiscing on the delightful memories I had of writing when I was younger. However, I reminded myself, “Enough complaining. It is time to write this essay.”

I started to write the first sentence of the essay. Somehow, I was suddenly in this concentrated mode where I would not be distracted by anything or anyone. I felt as if I was in this little bubble while writing my essay where nobody could disturb me. I spent the whole weekend writing my Augustine paper and although I was under a time crunch, I successfully submitted the essay five minutes before the deadline.

A sense of relief overcame me as I finally wrote the last part of my concluding paragraph which was a verse: “As Proverbs 4.6-7 says, ‘[d]o not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and she will watch you. The beginning of wisdom is this: Get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding.’”

Although this essay devoured my brain cells, the satisfaction I felt after I finally finished it was indescribable– it seemed as if I had conquered the world. There was this sensation of joy I felt whenever I looked over my paper, and it ultimately conquered my fear of thinking what grade I would receive. Yes, I was tremendously stressed throughout the process of writing the essay, but I also secretly enjoyed writing the paper in some aspects– the experience of understanding what Augustine was trying to convey to his audience truly felt enlightening.

After finishing the seemingly never-ending essay, I reconsidered, “Hm. Maybe writing is not that bad at all? Perhaps I should give writing a second-chance– I probably acted hastily. ”

Writing can occasionally even feel like a burden that I have to carry on my bare shoulders; however, if I push myself to just write that first sentence, the words would somehow flow out of my fingers, and I would feel freed from the shackles that were previously on my fingers. It is as if there is this invisible bondage wrapped around my fingers that are keeping me from writing. I believe that these imaginary shackles ultimately hinder me to release the pure passion and desire I have for writing.

Even though I am still figuring out my identity as a writer, I realized that eleven-year-old Emma never felt as if there was a bondage that hindered her from writing. She was not concerned with what anybody else thought of her writing, and most importantly, she truly wrote for herself. She did not write for achieving a one-hundred mark on her essay or for receiving academic validation. I believe that one of the hardest things about writing is actually writing the first sentence– once I write the first sentence, I feel as if I have passed the self-invented wall I had made between writing and me. As Louis L’Amour famously writes, “Start writing no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.”

I may feel like I have to cross this wall that is separating me from the passion I have for writing, but writing will always hold a special place in my life. I may not feel like how eleven-year-old Emma felt for writing, and writing may not have the same purpose for me as it did for my younger self, but I am gradually learning to appreciate the art of writing and actually enjoy the experience of writing.