Writing is more than just the simple act of putting pencil to paper. Writing can help the quiet to shout, the boring, to stand out, even the sad to sometimes pout. Writing can help create a word that can either be seen by everyone, or even by no one. Writing allows me to paint a canvas with a pencil, to take breath away with mere granite and wood.

To me, writing has always been something the teachers would make us do. For me, writing is -just another way to bore children. But these past few years have opened my eyes to what writing can really do for me.

I never read. I don’t read books, essays, or stories. I hardly ever pick up a magazine. But when I write a story, or even just a couple lines of a poem, it replenishes my ability, even my feelings. Sometimes I write to feel better, other times I just feel better when I write. No matter what the reason, I just find a reason to write.

I remember the first time I actually wrote something worthwhile. It was maybe my eighth grade year. I remember having an idea for this amazing story topic; it had been boiling up in my head for quite some time. I sat down at my parents’ computer one night and just stared at the screen, petrified. This idea in my head was so perfect and intangible; I couldn’t bear to let it go bad.

Luckily, as soon as I began to write, the thoughts flowed out of my mind; like a waterfall of words cascading from my brain, down through my fingers and filling up the page. The ideas were so vivid that I couldn’t stop; after more than an hour of writing, my story came to a sanctified end.

My story was a mere two and a half pages, but it was enough to keep my thoughts contained. After skimming through it once or twice, I rushed off to show my parents. This memory has crystallized the essence of what I experience every time I write something that I care about.