Pebbles lie betwixt boulders, up and down the riverbank of writing. Toes tingling with twinges of nipping ice water, I wade, step by step, into the stream of writing and language. Years of literary experience have drifted by, yet I feel like a novice, still treading lightly on the riverbank. The countless papers riddled with misplaced modifiers, absent commas, and absurd analogies are still present, remaining as long as my critical eye permits them, despite the measure of time I pour into each work. My writing abilities are improving, yes, but the years of experience lie in wait, anxious for my fastidious and loving hand to set to work. I too am eager— yearning for the day when the jagged edges of my sentences recede to the wide river of skill and ability.
I am more trusting of myself as a writer now, letting undulating thoughts sweep my hand where they please. The more I write for myself, attempt to bring a faint smile or dab at wet, red eyes, the more mellifluous the phrases and ideas. Steadily cycling through college essays throughout first semester, I am being ingrained with the value of each word. The weight one synonym may have over another, the active verbiage, and thrill of present tense are essential to my style of literary craftsmanship. By incorporating newly discovered vocabulary or recent lessons in morality, I strive to make all purposeful. I am no longer merely a student learning how write, but an author in pursuit of my story and my purpose.
Whether crafting my own works or meticulously combing through other’s, I see a sole purpose in all literature. Prying open the cover of a book is not just an exchange of knowledge, but an experience in which the reader, and at times the author, can live vicariously. Embedding one’s self into a plot line or laboratory report provides a glimpse into another individual’s life journey and mission. You see the world through what each person has seen, learning wisdom and self truths with each touchstone. Feeling the inner tug towards writing, I know it is my duty to duly give my audience and myself those experiences, attempting to make my works palpable and immersive.
From the moment I first wet my feet as a writer, I have desired to make my voice heard. Like the dissipating concentric rings breaking the water’s surface, so I desire for the words I so carefully construct to impact my audiences. To be proud of one’s work is not always a given - criticism may sting. Oftentimes, I become self conscious of my work due to critique of my own. My drive for excellence is furthered by my desire to take pride in my work. I will no longer tiptoe on the bank, but to dive headlong into my own literary adventure as the sage expert, pebbles forgone.
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