The Voice

The Voice

         In elementary school all children are taught the fundamentals of writing.  I have vivid memories from my childhood of sitting in kindergarten class learning the basic verbal and written skills: ABC’s, spelling and grammar.  My teacher called this language development; the foundation of writing.  The introduction to nouns, pronouns, verbs, and prepositions added more bricks to the foundation.  I listened closely, determined to learn the mechanics, but I soon became lost among all the do’s and don’ts.  I did not fully understand the process of writing or how to convert my thoughts into words.  That is until I was introduced to fiction.   
 
         Fictional writing opened the doors to a new dimension, allowing me to step into the realms of creativity.  Once inside, my imagination flourished like English ivy growing deeply and densely into the soil of my soul.  It rapidly consumed my inner voice, twisting and shaping the images in my mind, transforming them into a flowing river of words.  It spoke to me in the most beautiful language I had ever heard, rich and velvety, accented with strength and confidence; I was mesmerized, completely under its spell.  I embraced my imagination, giving it jurisdiction over my literary compositions.  I became its devout servant only too eager to transcribe the words it fed me.  I wrote short stories about faraway lands with mystical creatures; every line of ink illustrated the journey of my characters.  I incorporated this brand of writing into my written assignments at school and received praises on my creativity.
 
         However, by the time I reached the fourth grade writing assignments were more complex, focusing on the author’s personal thoughts, feelings and ideas. This was discouraging, my imagination had never allowed my inner voice the freedom of speech; she had been cast away into the world of fiction.  I had never written about facts that required my own interpretations and convictions.  What would people think about my voice, a voice that had never been allowed to broadcast along literary waves?  I could not reveal this inner part of myself with my teacher or peers.  My voice was too young, immature, and lacked the knowledge to express herself; surely everyone would see this and laugh at her ignorance.  So for the sake of avoiding humiliation, I decided to keep my written assignments vague, eluding details and personal reflections.  I maneuvered around the topics, filling pages with lots of words that in the end said nothing and I received the grades to prove it. 
 
         Still, this maneuver was short lived; my efforts to keep my inner voice silent were fruitless. She had become self aware and pleaded for her release from captivity.  I fought against her, conspiring with my imagination to keep her confined, but she was determined to be heard and her voice grew with intensity, seeking sovereignty. When I could take no more of her demands I found a way to appease her while shielding us both from the outside world. 
 
         At the age of twelve I started keeping a diary.  My first entries were impersonal, containing no opinions, or insight.  Instead of being self reflecting, they mirrored my previous works of fiction.  I pressed forward, searching for the words from my inner voice, but there was only silence.  The overgrown bush of my imagination served as a barrier, fighting to keep her locked away.  I had to free her, so I dug deep inside myself, stripping away layer after layer of fear and disappointment, until I finally reached my inner voice.  I snatched away the last binding twig, she was at last free.  And as a reward she granted me the freedom of self-expression, freedom to unite with her and become one.  I wrote page after page, releasing my thoughts, feelings and aspirations with every pen stroke.  The more I wrote the more self-aware I became.  I used my diary as an outlet, but it was still an outlet that I would never have to share.  As my writing style developed, it required more of me.  I wrote frequently, filling pages so quickly that I often had to purchase new journals. 
 
         Upon entering middle school I was introduced into the world of essays and reports.  It was abundantly clear that I could no longer bluff my way through an assignment as I had done in previous years, at least not without receiving an “F”.  This realization brought on a sick feeling, it brewed inside me, releasing a familiar aroma of self-doubt and fear.  I knew I would have to expose my voice to the world, but how would people react to the words I chose to convey my thoughts?  I couldn’t dwell on this anymore,  I had to set aside my concerns and face this head on.
  
         My first essay was titled, 'What would your world be like in a perfect society?'  This topic is forever etched into memory like a floral design around a Champagne glass.  I spent hours and days working on it, going through paper and erasers like locusts on a tobacco farm.  I knew my essay would be open to analysis and criticism, so I read it over and over again, fearful that it would not be good enough.  However, the day I submitted my essay I was no longer apprehensive.  To my amazement I felt relieved.  The weight of insecurity had been lifted off my shoulders and a sudden surge of liberation burned intensely through my veins.  It was Friday and I knew the teacher would spend the weekend reading, critiquing and grading the large stack of essays.  I wouldn’t have to face the results of my convictions until sometime next week.  Although this gave me a false sense of closure, I welcomed the thought with open arms.
 
         Monday morning I walked into the class room refreshed from the weekend.  I noticed the rest of the students were buzzing around like bees in a flower garden.  As I eased into my seat, I overheard one of the students mention that our essays had been graded and would be returned at the beginning of class.  My false sense of closure began to sing a song of dread in my ears…dum dah dum dum.  The song was accompanied by the buzzing of my peers and the thumping of my heart.  It played on like an orchestra, never missing a note and always on beat.  I tried to drown it out, like in the climax of a movie, it only became louder.
 
         Staring down at my desk I noticed the buzzing was fading from my inner composition.  I looked up to find the busy little bees had taken their seats.  With a sudden rush, I felt nauseated from the panic that grew in the pit of my stomach.  I watched the teacher go from one desk to the other, returning the now-critiqued essays.  My heart pounded, now the soloist of my song, it whispered a soft melody as it finished the closing act.  Out the corner of my eye I saw the teacher approach my desk.  She stood silently as her fingers dug into the now small stack of papers.  Without warning her hand suddenly withdrew from the stack now clutching my paper; I held my breath watching as she laid it face down on my desk.  I sat motionless looking down at my paper as the teacher walked away.  I began preparing for the worst.  The vision in my head was clear; a bloody sea of lines, circles and arrows painting a perfect picture of failure.  The air gradually escaped from my lungs.  The time had come for me to face my fears and accept my fate.  I reached down and flipped the paper over.  My eyes widened with surprise, beyond all the lines and circles there was a note scribbled in the top right-hand corner: “Great Job! You have an excellent written voice.”
 
         At that moment the light bulb above my head shined bright with the realization that people are not born writers; it requires practice, motivation, criticism and hard work.  How good of a writer you become depends solely on your own effort and determination.  A good writer does not suppress their inner voice; instead a good writer projects their thoughts, feelings and ideas because this is the real foundation in writing.