A Moment in History

I didn’t realize how much I’ve really been writing lately until I looked down at my paper in my writing class today and realized that my pen was out of ink. Ordinarily this would not be of any consequence at all, but this time is different. I have not used that specific pen outside of that class. I’ve been in class for three weeks, and over those three weeks I have written enough to run a pen dry.

That’s not all the writing I’ve been doing, either. I have also been writing every single day in the poetry journal I keep, because that’s a habit I hope I’ll never break. And I’ve been writing the odd blog post, and helping a few friends write song lyrics (they’re doing music at the same arts institute I’m at right now). So, basically, I’ve been writing more in the past few weeks than I ever have in my life, and I am so happy for it.

Sure, it can be exhausting. I am up at 7:30 am, going for a run because I am in constant training for cross country. I get to breakfast with ten minutes to spare, so I have time to pretty much grab a bagel or yogurt and some hot tea before walking ten minutes uphill to get to my major, aka my writing class. From there, it’s three to four hours of writing intensive until we break for lunch, then odd activities later, and some days it’s back to writing in the afternoon. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It is a lot of writing. My hand does cramp up, and my chronic tendonitis hates writing, and hates typing more. But I love it.

I’ve become a far stronger writer through this program. I’ve been given endless prompts, filled almost half a notebook, and written some of my strongest short pieces yet. I’ve reviewed my own work, spent time with other young writers who aspire to be better, just like I do, and I’ve had the opportunity to work with amazing writing teachers. My work is more concise, and my imagery clearer. I can’t say I’m not a little fatigued, but I can’t say I’d have it any other way.

A whole penful of ink is a lot of writing. I usually do not go through an entire pen over the course of a whole school year. And I went through one in three weeks. I looked down at the paper in the middle of a prompt, realized that only the impressions of the words were there on the paper, switched to a pencil and kept going. I now do not have a black pen. That’s okay. I have a notebook full of material, none of which is polished but all of which is good base material. Much of it will later be worked into longer stories, or revised into cleaner poetry.

The best part is that I didn’t even realize how much I’ve written over the past few weeks. Writing has become such an integral part of my day that I didn’t even realize how much I was coming out with. I love writing, and this fact both astounds and delights me.

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