I always feel weird telling people I have a blog. It makes me feel like I am some lemming that follows the trends to try to be cool. Well 1. I am not cool and probably won’t ever be so we don’t have to worry about that and 2. Writing has always been a big part of my life.
I remember the first time I wrote something that was important to me. I was in my 5th grade D.A.R.E. class (Drug Abuse Resistance Education). Of course, I had already written plenty of stories before then. In first and second grade I wrote short stories with illustrations and everything. My teacher even laminated some of them so I could keep them forever (since they were created on scratch construction paper, they weren’t exactly top quality). Of course, I’m surprised my teachers didn’t call emergency meetings with my parents considering one of my little books was named “Blood Steps to the Door,” and another one was about a giant evil rabbit that was shot down by tanks. I was a delightful little child, clearly.
Anyway, 5th grade was the first time I wrote about my feelings. The D.A.R.E. program had meant a lot to me. The officer who taught it had really taken time to invest in me and make me feel special. Who knows, maybe that’s why I never did drugs after all. I did live in the meth central of the U.S. so that’s really saying something. Toward the end of the program, we were told that budget cuts were being made and the D.A.R.E. program was ending that year. I remember being so sad because I genuinely wanted other kids to experience what I did. I wrote an essay about it that I was so proud of. I talked about all the reasons it would be a mistake to get rid of the program. My teacher liked it and had me read it in front of my entire school, parents, and the D.A.R.E. officers. That’s also when I learned that I enjoy public speaking. Of course, I remember standing at the podium and reading my essay with confidence and ease. I’m sure if there was a video of it, you would see half my head struggling to appear above the podium and me mumbling my words into the microphone was that a foot taller than my head. But that’s not the point, because I felt amazing. That memory reminds me of how important writing is in my life. Even at a young age, it was the best way for me to understand my jumbled thoughts.
From then on, I continued to write in many different ways. In 8th grade I wrote a first person short story about Joan of Arc. That was the first time I was ever sent to the principle’s office. I got a note in class and by the time I got to his office I was drenched in sweat and had probably pooped my pants. Turns out my teacher had given it to him to read and he wanted to compliment me and I wasn’t getting kicked out of school after all.
In high school I was the Editor-and-Chief of the school newspaper, The Pony Express. For the record, I wanted to change the name but apparently it had years of history and yadda yadda. Somehow I have zero copies of the paper, which is a little sad. I wrote articles about anything and everything in that paper. It was a really great experience for me.
Fast forward to college. I turn in an average of one essay a week. I used to stress over writing four pages and now I can pound out a 15 page paper in one sitting. I have written about social media, Disney, corporate business structures, Shakespeare, global economy, and probably everything in between. The problem is I rarely have any time for writing about the important things, like giant rabbits being killed by tanks. So now I’m making time for it because it’s fun and cathartic. It’s like my diary (except this time I can’t tear out the pages in embarrassment years later). So yes, I blog. If that makes me a lemming then so be it.