Where I Wander
Growing up, I never had much confidence. I was a kid who
had self-image issues before I hit puberty and didn’t feel confident in my
voice. My voice was quiet and that was often a subject of criticism by my peers
and my family. This just made my voice grow smaller and eventually melt away
like the soft white snow of winter melting in the torrid flames of summer. I
had forgotten what I sounded like. My life seemed to lose color as more
criticism and antagonists fell upon my story. I had forgotten how to write my
story; how to continue it. Often times I debated continuing it at all; it
simply felt much easier to end my story in the short, abrupt way typical of
most tragedies. Then, two magnificent masters of the written word crept into my
life and showed me what it meant to be heard and to create. From these two key
figures in my life I gained two key perspectives that nurtured my creativity
until it flourished.
Witlessly wandering in the white expanse devoid of the
comfort of refracting light and joy, I walked. Echoing amidst the expanse of
nothing, a single word joined and accompanied my wandering, “write”. As the
words slowly flowed from my pen the white expanse subtly gained texture and
form. The white nothingness became perfectly frigid white snow; simple creativity
but something creative, all the same. This land was beautiful and simply made
my wanderings more enjoyable; however, they were missing something. This new
dream which I had, interestingly, awoken into felt wonderful but I didn’t know
what had caused this new reality to come into my existence. Just a young boy,
walking in an infinitely generating universe of imagination, I was astounded
yet uninspired. Where was one to look for such inspiration to feed this rapidly
expanding expanse? My childhood inspirations were faint or forgotten by now so
where else was there? I stopped my wandering. I sat and looked down at the
snow, appreciating something so small and unsure how to progress further.
I lifted my head and found my awkward twelve-year-old
self surrounded by tanned walls and a plethora of literature. Shy and
self-conscious I sat in the back corner away from the terrifying monster that
is the sixth grade student. Then came in the teacher of the class I was seated
in. He was loud, whimsical and managed to distract me from my appearance for
ninety minutes. His name was Mr. Whitt; to me he was my favorite teacher but
today he’s the man of unmeasurable creativity whose amazing lands of creation
left me dazzled and inspired. His class was a blur of structure and vocabulary
with exciting flashes of creative writing mixed in. He taught me many things,
many words, many important authorial choices that I could take as a writer;
however, his most important lesson was my inspiration.
The first prompt he gave us to write quickly about was:
“Name something you’re happy is in your life.” The impish inkling that came
into my mind was “Nintendo”. “How stupid!” and “How simple!” I thought to
myself as I begrudgingly put down my pencil. As I lowered my head to dive back
into my lonely world of frost an illuminating sentence bore down upon my
anxious existence. As Mr. Whitt called upon me to read what I had written for
the class I raised my terrified head and meekly read aloud, “I chose Nintendo
because it has inspired me to draw and write.” Almost in a practiced motion I
fell into my chair, careful not to pull more attention to myself, the strange
new kid. His response was simple, he thanked me for reading aloud what I had
written and he said that he enjoyed how personal I was with my answer. As I
smiled slightly and looked down, I felt pride for the world that I was creating
with simple writing. He showed me that I was my inspiration. That the things I
felt self-conscious about were actually things to be proud of. I still wasn’t
confident in myself; however, my confidence in the strength and creativity of
my mind flourished making me confident in my writing.
As I wandered I kept Mr. Whitt’s words at the forefront
of my subconscious as I continued to create. Beautiful pines were grown out of
my words in the snowy expanse. The joyous colors of emotion and creativity gave
life to the landscape. At the utterance of a sentence I created settings of
limitless potential to wander through. I created characters that not only
accompanied me but also allowed me to create tales of epic proportions when I
needed to escape from my own story. My barren landscape of snow and frigidity
had finally blossomed into a world of every type of feeling; I could create
something warm and welcoming or I could create something sad and beautiful. I
could create a love story depicting two sweethearts growing and falling in love
or I could create the story of the mighty hero, slaying the dragon and saving
the land. My possibilities were no longer limited by my lack of inspiration.
The moment Mr. Whitt said he had enjoyed what I had written, I became confident
and inspired.
However, as I aged my beautifully expansive expanse began
to feel shallow and small; I felt it begin to die. Once again, I stopped my
wandering and sat in my expanse appreciating what I had created. Again, as I
looked up I found myself in a classroom, with walls of the similar pallor that
schools tend to adopt. I was seventeen then and still quiet. My new English
teacher was named Mrs. Rau. At the time, I was a junior in high school and had
the pleasure of having her as a teacher the previous two years. Regrettably, I
couldn’t be bothered to pay much attention as I was much too concerned with the
world inside my own head. However, that regret was short lived because as I
read the assigned literature more and more I learned something; they were
explosions of knowledge, creativity and allusion. Mrs. Rau taught my class and
myself how to analyze these marvelous creations and it wasn’t until recently
that I realized how beneficial this was. Because of the rigorous drilling we
did in class reading excerpts and analyzing them in depth I was able to learn
what I meant to be an author. I learned to see the knowledge behind each idea
that was being created, to see the creativity of the plot that was portrayed,
and to appreciate the allusions used by authors to give their creations depth. Moreover,
through our reading of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick in which the
extensively poetic narrative voice of Ishmael left me aghast and showed me what
I wanted my writing voice to become. Mrs. Rau taught me not only to love literature
and poetry, but also how to appreciate it. She showed me what I wanted to
become; I knew after having those four years of English that I wanted to become
an author who could create and inspire the same way I had been.
These two teachers are who I have to thank for the writer
that I’ve become today and will become in the future. Mr. Whitt showing me that
creativity is limitless and I can be my own source of inspiration. Mrs. Rau for
showing me that literature and authorial choices are beautiful and will make my
writing the way I hear it in my mind. As I live in my expanse, I no longer
wander. I move purposefully from one area to the next. Each piece of literature
and poetry that I read creates an explosion of brilliant inspiration in my
world. I have grown and now see the path that I must take to become the writer
I want to be.
