Putting Personal into Writing: The Short Journey to Exposing and Confronting Vulnerabilities
When 2021 rolled around, truth be told, I was excited. Not only was it a clean sleigh to start in a new year, but I also couldn’t wait to go back to school and learn, especially knowing that I have enrolled myself in a Creative Writing class — the one class I look forward to the most in my January semester. I had seniors who informed me that I was going to enjoy this class compared to the other journalistic modules due to my zeal for writing so I did come with high expectations.
After stuffing all my March term with heavy writing modules, I completely avoided writing when the August semester began as I was sick with the whole routine of waking up to only be faced with my laptop and reminded of the piles of assignments I have yet to dig in. March 2020 was taxing. It was non-stop writing until I was in the rut where I felt nothing I put up was up to par despite the decent comments I received from my lecturers.
I didn’t realize it was possible to hate something that I’ve only known to love growing up. At that point in time, I was truly in a convoluted phase where I didn’t even want to touch the keyboard on my laptop or be in my room. So, I made the switch to design modules in August, hoping the same thing would happen, but this time, my passion for writing would sprint back into action since I haven’t been doing it for almost 5 months.
And it did. While I was sick with designing, I missed writing and couldn’t wait to get back into my groove when I entered the first class of Creative Writing. I remembered being briefed about the assignments and feeling the enthusiasm bubbling deep in me. I was happy to know that my ‘writer-self’ was back. It was all joy until the first tutorial was assigned and we were required to write a piece on ‘Who Am I’ — an easy task for some but difficult for the rest of the lot, and I, unfortunately, fall into the latter category. Not to mention the second tutorial of the week was to write a piece on our loved ones.
I am pretty confident with my writing — that is something built up from the tough 8 years of practice. However, throughout the 8 years, I have always known that I have trouble penning personal feelings down. Sure, it’s easy to fable a tale of the betrayal of a unicorn or a cop chasing a heist gang thriller, all because they don’t reflect a true part of myself but just the scratch of the surface. In fact, in the last homework I was assigned to in my Print News Reporting class, I faked a story of a close friend disclosing her illness because I was ordered to write an emotional recount of an actual scenario that hurt me deeply. To be honest, that was a dream I had when I was 5. It did actually scarred me for the day though.
Perhaps it’s the non-confrontational attitude I was brought up with or the reluctance to dig something that has been hidden so deep for decades, the dread of having to live through nightmares I so desperately wanted to avoid. Writing has always been a safe solace, a refuge where I simply let out all of my thoughts but even in that supposed safety shelter, I build my walls. I spent the next 4 nights, thinking of what I want to write but I kept drawing blanks. Being a student-pleaser, I wanted to impress. I wanted to shine like in every other class. So, I told myself I need to set the right tone for my first work but that was hard to do when I was facing the biggest stumbling block in my writing journey.
I thought my first piece was a disaster. As I was reading it, I could feel how pretentious it was. I could actually see the walls closing around each paragraph. I was disappointed in myself for not being able to showcase what I can to the table. And that setback was enough to have me spiral all back into a dump. I had no inspiration and for the next few days, I went onto a self-loathing period. Frustrations and more frustrations. It didn’t help that I was extremely anxious about the closing deadline for another tutorial work that I haven’t even started. So much for a good semester.
That was until I uncannily remembered my lecturer’s words, ‘just write’, that I should put my worries away and start typing away, so I did. I secluded myself from my whirlwind of thoughts and for the first time, braved through the terrifying emotions I have bottled. I looked at my mom, immediately feeling the centuries of gratefulness I have yet to expressed gushing in me, and it happened. I didn’t just write, I wrote with my heart. I was fully engrossed with my feelings. My second tutorial work on loved ones was dedicated to my mother and the years of pent-up emotions.
After that, writing personal was not as challenging as it was like the first. With each work given by my lecturer, my writing came out more natural and less pompous. As a matter of fact, I now enjoyed writing personal narratives. I remembered having so much fun just writing down all my thoughts during the opinion piece assignment and felt so accomplished for having them out in the wind. There really is nothing like finishing the last sentence of your hard work but it doesn’t compare to the pride you held when you read it.
The funniest thing is, now that the semester is over, I’m reviewing my work for this course and I realized of all the writings I’ve done, my piece on my mother is my best work. To me, it emits raw passion and true emotions — a struggle I have managed to overcome all thanks to this class and the two-word advice that probably didn’t seem like something at first from my very wise lecturer.
Creative writing wasn’t just a journey of improving the technicalities of my writing but it was the avenue that forced me to stop in my track and finally confront the vulnerabilities I have been running away from for so long. Of course, through the power of a pen because nothing is more beautiful than putting personal into writing and letting someone else read your story.
