I’m Emily, from Boston. I have a twin brother who looks nothing like me, we don’t have Boston accents, and I’ve lived in the same house my entire life. The only time I’ve been uprooted, pre-college, was when in kindergarten I moved from the room I shared with Sam into my own pink room.
My dad has always been a writer, although I didn’t realize it until I was older. He has written several screenplays and at least one book that I know about. [I once rifled through his closet and found his writing. I remember thinking that he used a lot of swear-words.]
He always told me to keep a journal. But aside from the one time I went to sleep-away camp and the one time I left the country, I have never kept a successful journal. Meaning that I never write in it.
I wish I had nice handwriting that filled pages, but I write in a clumsier version of Times New Roman. There’s nothing romantic about that, especially when I end up with a bunch of scribbles and perfectly blacked out words, phrases, or passages. So when I write, I type.
I’m concerned that my journal would be too neat to be interesting or substantive. I’m maybe too neurotic to have engaging thought patterns.
But that same neuroticism has allowed me to major in Economics and minor in Math. While I’m not passionate about either, I like solving problems.
Writing presents me with a different challenge.
I generally think about writing as exploration or observation. I write something down, then I realize how it could be said better or more clearly or succinctly, then I rewrite it, edit it, until I’ve explored all options and picked the phrases that I like the best. This is more difficult for me than the rote repetition of a math problem.
I’d like to get to better know and understand my own voice, so that I can better explain myself, share my opinions, and grapple with complexities. Maybe I’ll do this within our papers and projects, or maybe I’ll finally figure out how to write in a journal.