writing

There is an intimate, human quality to handwritten letters. They can create a material connection with others from miles away that can forever be held and looked back on. These letters also in time can serve as written records of history, tangible reminders of the past. In our movement towards digital technology, we risk the loss of one of the most treasured forms of human communication.

As a college student, I am very familiar with the necessity of writing. From class essays to job applications to blogging at Earth to Berkeley, storytelling is integral to my life. Sharing a story on Earth to Berkeley is one of my new favorite parts of my week.

An exploration of my relationship with writing through the lens of sports.

why can’t I write about rose bouquets and apple tea // instead all I’m left with are paper cuts and my bloodied fingers

This blank book had nothing to do with language: It went beyond that. It was the emptiness of this book that would make space for the author to say exactly what she wanted to say, everything she could ever want to say, forever. 

My commonplaces are as rhizomatic as I am. My thoughts and ideas flow and emerge in unpredictable patterns, taking on new roots at will. 

I never read my columns once they are published because I’m always afraid of discovering an unintended meaning in my words that I didn’t notice when I first wrote it. What if I come across as selfish, or cocky when writing my columns? What if they aren’t relatable at all?

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, indigo and the infinite range of colors in between — there is, ostensibly, nothing special about these colors of the rainbow or the color wheel in general. Yet, it is often these ordinary concepts that beg for our imagination to turn them into something spectacular and out of the box. 

I’m working to be confident in what I write every week. I tell myself at every rereading and every edit that if I put my best foot forward, I’ll make something worthwhile. Even if it’s just a list of recipes rather than a heartfelt confession like this, I know I’m putting in the steps to improve.

I have recently rediscovered my copy of Yeats' collected poems. I felt compelled to respond to the poem again now, years later, without peeking at my previous attempt.