I used to think I was hot shit in elementary school.  I loved writing what my eight year old mind could only comprehend as the most elaborate, most incredible stories possible.  I was a Writer and I was going to be the youngest best-seller in the world. I proudly put my name on every piece of paper that I wrote on.  The stories I wrote were actually quite awful. I believed I came up with clever and invigorating tales- but I guess writing anything longer than three pages is daunting and complex to a third grader.  

    As a child, I was known for being well-behaved and rather patient.  When it came to writing these stories I had, however, patience was not a skill that I possessed.  After a couple days, I abandoned my work like a smoker that accidentally dropped a cigarette in the snow; too lazy to pick up and see if there’s any spark of light left to build upon but still sad that it could not be salvaged.

    Middle school and high school taught me how to write arguments for standardized tests.  I enjoyed writing but in a different way. It felt like a game. I found my voice in writing these arguments and could easily whip one up for class.  This good relationship with writing did not last, though.

It wasn’t until I had to write an autobiography sophomore year of high school when I decided that I hated writing and wanted nothing to do with it.  

    “It’s a cry for help!” my mother exclaimed after reading my first draft.  I didn’t think much of it. Yes, I was very jaded and depressed in high school but I thought I was just conveying my thoughts and life accurately.  My mother’s response scared me. I felt like I was treated as if I acted out in bad behavior. I was never going to write about my life ever again.

Every writing assignment I had for the rest of high school was terrifying.  I found myself blacking out my computer screen in the library when we had typing days out of fear that someone would read over my shoulder.  I printed my work without my name on it in case I sent it to the wrong printer and someone found it. I would write my name in black pen just before handing it in, claiming that I “...didn’t notice my name was missing until after I printed it out”.  I was scared of my own writing.

    It wasn’t until I graduated when I realized that writing can be whatever the author wants it to be.  No longer needing to write for standardized tests, I explored different forms and styles of writing. Writing is a form of art; it’s not just another category in which everyone has to memorize a formula for on a standardized test.  I started writing again, but slowly this time. I took careful steps with mini journal entries until I could relearn how to run and eventually take off and soar with a full blown memoir.

I fell in love with writing again.  

I was free.

    I write for myself.  I write for graded and non graded assignments. I write for shows, performances, pillowtalk, everyday conversations, small talk, arguments, and connection.  I write for some reason and for no reason at all. Some of my writing is powerful while most are just obscure thoughts that I came up with in the middle of the night.  

    I am still learning.  I believe there is no end to learning about writing.  I am learning how to craft my art and perform on paper as well as I do on stage.  I still am somewhat ashamed of my work, as I find myself double and triple checking that I am using the correct printer at school so my work doesn’t get lost and someone reads it in a different room.  I do, however, proudly type my name on every piece I write regardless of how embarrassed I am of it. I am Maya Grossman, and I am a Writer.