The Sound of Writing

I was staring at empty space. I tried and true to look for the fixed contours on the paper and the silhouette of the compose I was holding. I tried entirely to no avail. My mind was smooth in an endless array of uneasiness. I was not certain whether I was dreaming or already awake. This was hard, I told myself. I felt a drop of sweat trickling down my cheek. Thomas Edison once said that record is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration. If he was mighty then I was on the right track. But doubt was lento lurking and creeping around me. Was it re in ally this hard to be inspired to import? I just comforted myself by constantly saying what dungaree Anouilh once said, that inspiration was a farce that poets had invented to give themselves importance.When I was showtime to make a writer, I was not even aware that I was trying to be one. Grade school for me was seventy percent acting and thirty percent dreaming. And my dreams during that time were all almo st taking an honorary society Award or creation named as one of the sexiest people in the world. Becoming the close pre spotnt was also in my mind. But the concept of beingness a writer was bid imagining myself eating salad with an alien in a crater of a moon in one of the planets in the Andromeda galaxy it never crossed my mind.In a nutshell, when I tried to analyze how I was as a writer in mug school, all I could say was that I was a courageously risible writer. An idiot, but brave nonetheless. This was largely due to the fact that everything I had written at that time was not even close to being shining or capacious. All the dustup I wrote were simply inspired by having the guts to just do it. If there was a paper as well as difficult to do and a word too hard to define, all I did was to write and write because I believed that everything would be just fine.I was gaumless enough to go forth while all hell bust loose and up to now smiled at the end of the day. I was guided by my own foolish belief I was brave simply because I would not endorse away. This was writing for me in grade school. paternity for me screen then was not about being humourous or being brilliant. Writing was all about just stroking my pen without sorrow and without regard for the outcome. However, in a sense, everyone who attempted to write had some ounce of courage. I felt that I was a better writer than the other pert students not because I wrote well but rather, I wrote braver. And I was braver continuing than most. As Ronald Reagan once mentioned, heroes were not braver than anyone else. They were just braver five minutes longer.As I made the transition from grade school to senior high school, I st ruseed to become idealistic. I began having these grand notions of changing the world and eradicating poverty. I was dreaming of winning the Nobel Peace Prize or be named the next Time pickups Person of the Year. This time, I was absolutely clear in go a writer. W riting for me during high school was all about greatness. I felt the need to write to impress. I cherished to be witty and brilliant. I wanted everybody to be mesmerized in reading every single word I wrote. When I tried to look back during those days, even when I wrote poorly, I blindly presented my written work of art secure of hubris and unafraid. I often compared writing to boxing.As Muhammad Ali would say, to be a great champion, a person had to believe that he was the best. If he was not, he should run a risk that he was. This was me in high school. I was the writer who was so full of himself. If a teacher or a classmate did not like what I wrote, I simply told myself that these people did not understand the high level of writing I was doing. I understood myself to be a brilliant and confident writer. In reality, compared to who I was as a writer in grade school, only one thing had changed. If I was a brave and idiotic back then, I was not confident but just cocky in high s chool. And to my realization, I was still boneheaded for thinking of how great I was.When I stepped into college, a renewed nil was awakened within me. Maybe I got too tired of being cocky and stupid that I started seeing a new side of me I never saw I had. This time I believed I had transcended from being the inviolable and the better man to the being best man. I was no longer the idiot and stupid writer. I was filled with excitement. I was now the fool. Somehow, the words and lines I were using suddenly all sounded a bit poetic and romantic. I often pondered if I was to be the next William Shakespeare.This time, I was inspired by the others that had gone before me. I wanted to sway the hearts and minds of people with my writing. I wanted to invoke their deepest darkest secrets by means of my words. I wanted to encapsulate each soul with a stripe of my pen. I longed to see their tears and hear their laughs by my artistry in poetry. I would be that whom which T. S. Eliot descri bed as the genuine poet who could communicate his words before it was understood. And to my shock, I did see their tears and heard their laughs because of what I had written. I saw my professors crying in pain because they could not even stockpile one more word of my work. I heard laughs not because I was funny, but because my work was hilarious. Despite this, I still continued and persevered. As one of my favourite authors, Richard Bach, would say, a professional writer was an amateur who did not quit.Everything was a bit different after that. Somehow, until to this very day, I would still be idiotic, stupid and foolish. But this time around, I was a wise fool at the least. I had been quoting Edison, Anouilh, Ali, Reagan and Eliot just to name a a couple of(prenominal) thinking that by using their words, I would be a good writer I would sound better. But I soon effected that writing was about finding my voice.I needed to find my own words. Writing was about knowing and understan ding who I was. Thus, I resolved to attend for the right words, the right imagery, the right tone and the right sound. However, I continuously asked myself if there were indeed such things. Then, it hit me. I was so touch with the way I was writing that I forgot to find my purpose for it. why did I want to become a writer? The answer was simple. It was because in writing, I offered who I was and not what I had. That sounded right, I told myself. It sounded just about right.