Unlike myself my mother was a lover of words. Four letter words and loud, angry words. Growing up, my sisters’ and I were the target of these degrading, angry words and always looking to find blame where it wasn’t needed. Over time, I quit expressing my feelings aloud and rarely wrote them. When I entered junior high and high school, the only time I wrote was when all these emotions filled to the brink and I allowed them to spill onto a piece of paper.
Before, I would have never classified myself as a writer. In my opinion, I thought a writer used long, clever words, and had at least one of their works published. And was, well, good. After the first day of my college English class, this view suddenly changed. Now, I believe I am a writer; maybe not a very good writer but a writer all the same. My college instructor opened my eyes to a different kind of writer. I believe I am a writer who has the individual power to write what I feel, in words that work best for me. I believe that a writer never truly accomplishes what they set out to do on any piece they create. Once they get the commas down, then they have to work on semicolons. And once those two things are accomplished they have to start looking at appositives and independent clauses; whatever those are. The point being, no matter how successful the writer is they never create a perfect masterpiece.
As I matured into a young adult, and continue to do so, I have opened up a sliver, and have started expressing what I feel. The best way I can do this is through words, because when it’s all said and done, I can crinkle it up and throw it away. Or, I can frame it and hang it on my wall, inviting everyone inside to take a jab at what I have created. I guess now, I am a lover of words, just not like the ones of my mother. I love deep, strong, and spicy words that leave me with a lucrative taste in my mouth, begging for more. I believe I am the author of my own life’s adventures.