I’ve never actually stopped to question why I write, beyond the common observation that I just have to get the words down on paper and out of my head. It’s much more often that I find myself questioning the format in which these words spew onto the page, or even into my head. It wasn’t until I read George Orwell’s “Why I Write” that I realized that the two were quite nearly the same question. Orwell “find[s] that by the time you have perfected any style of writing, you have always outgrown it.” At first I thought that this statement simply could not be true. Many writers are known and idolized for their style. I, as many young writers do, find myself emulating whoever’s work I’ve most recently read. But, as I thought about it more, I came to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been writing, or how many people read your work; you’re always striving towards perfection and there’s always something you wish you could change. Every piece of writing is experimentation and I don’t think Orwell’s statement has to be a pessimistic view. I’d like to interpret it as this: every time you successfully complete a piece of writing, you’ve reached tremendous strides as a writer. Perfecting the piece makes you better and you have one more piece of experience to define yourself as a writer. Thus, as we continuously chase after style, we are constantly growing above and beyond it.
I am, like everyone else, a list of identities. I am a college student, a writer, a reader, a soccer fan, a worrier, both independent and dependent, a friend, a sister, organized until lack of time prevails, a leader, a follower, fond of sleep and bad at getting it, an amateur artist, a thinker, a collector and just your overall observer of the world we live in.