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By Keely O'Bryan
I enjoy writing. Even when I’m hunched over my laptop, frustrated and struggling to complete a thought that is so clear in my mind, I remember that I would much rather be searching for synonyms than studying a textbook for an impending exam. I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember.
In the fourth grade, my final assessment for the year was writing a short essay on how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. While I had never made a PB&J, largely because I don’t like sandwiches, I was prepared to write the most eloquent paragraph that a fourth grader was capable of. The purpose of the assignment was to demonstrate that you could use transition words correctly (First, you grab the bread, then you grab your ingredients, finally you put the slices together, and on and on…), but I was determined to excel. I, so artistically, used academic language such as alternatively, consequentially, ultimately– which, ultimately, probably gave my teacher a headache to read. I don’t remember how I did on my PB&J paper, but it remains a vivid memory in my mind. I loved to write. I loved to construct things with words.
Writing is an activity often done in solitude. It’s something that is easy to romanticize. Sitting next to a window, maybe with hazy morning light or with the soft patter of raindrops, a cup of warm tea, and the inspiration to author something that I care so deeply about– or the inspiration to get an A on an assignment. Some of the moments that I have the most nostalgia for are when I’m writing. Being in AP Seminar in high school, tuning out the world to focus on constructing my paper on Princess Diana and working on scholarship essays, or the quiet moments sitting in the library Starbucks my freshman year, occasionally being greeted by a friend. I write the best when I’m alone in a room full of people. I love to people-watch as a break between paragraphs. Between paragraphs, I love to pause and people-watch.
Recently, I read in an advice column that journaling was the best way to get to know yourself. Your thoughts, abrupt and uncensored, alone on a page. I’ve tried journaling a few times, but getting my feelings on a page is one of the hardest things in the world. My thoughts, so eloquent on walks or in the shower, turn clumsy when written down. I end up meeting a version of myself who seems boring, stressed, and uninspired. Sentences get shorter and language falters. “My day was good. Took an exam. Studied. Did some work. Made some dinner.”
My first blog post stemmed from a journal-ish entry I wrote some time ago about missing food from Okinawa. In my mind, the places and people are so real, so wonderful and fill me with a sense of indescribable nostalgia. On paper, my memories felt like they fell flat, becoming two-dimensional caricatures of my life experiences. It made me sad that my words, usually feeling full of life in research papers, failed to capture the love I felt. It’s a funny predicament that I face– words come easier to me when I’m not writing about my own story. When writing an academic essay, I can see the connections between my research in my mind, creating a map to follow through my reasoning. When writing about myself, the connections blur. An essay can be graded. An essay can be graded, debated, improved upon. The conversation is what I love. My friends know that when I’m working on a long paper, it’s all I talk about. I constantly ask them to read drafts, share feedback, or listen as I ramble about my topic.
I don’t know why I have such a large disconnect for an activity that I love so much. Maybe it says something deeper about who I am and how I deal with life. Not everything can have a clear rubric, purpose, or purpose. Sometimes, you just have to get the words down, even when they feel wrong, to work your way toward what feels right within.
Keely O'Bryan is a McConnell Scholar at the University of Louisville in the class of 2028. She is studying political science and sustainability.