An Ode to Creative Writing

Georgia at her kindergarten desk

Summer is a collection of small moments; a photo album on fast-forward of laughter shared with friends, extra shift work, holidays to other parts of the country, the ocean, scorching sunshine, and disregarded to-do lists. When the start of February rolls around, we return to classes sunburnt, a little tired, and wondering how two months have passed us by so quickly.
During so many of these small moments, I write. After my last assignments for the school year have been submitted and I have walked out of the examination hall for the last time that year, I find myself with a foreign degree of freedom. It generally takes a few weeks for the novelty of the summer holidays to lapse into a functional routine, and when it does, I spend my time doing the thing that I have always loved most in the world.
A bookcase in my parents’ bedroom is home to my first novel. On pieces of paper stapled together, my six-year-old self drew palaces, princesses in ball gowns, and flowers growing from blue-coloured grass. My writing is littered with misspellings and is scrawled across the page in a glittery pen, but it represents a wide-eyed wonder that I still feel when writing. A sense of purpose and connection.
It has always fascinated me that the thoughts, emotions, and imaginations that flood my mind are simply electrochemical reactions: intangible and virtually incomprehensible. Yet I can transform these ideas into a dialect that can be recorded and that will last beyond me. Then, someone completely separate from me in identity and their experiences can translate what I have written into something of their own.
Granted, I have fallen into brief periods of love with other avocations - painting, competitive swimming, photography, astronomy - but it always results in a desperate homesickness for the anchoring to myself that creative writing provides me. Writing has taken me across the globe, introduced me to some of my best friends and mentors, and is an outlet for both the processing and documentation of my life’s experiences. My sentimentalism has meant that I have kept everything I have ever written and can take those memories out on both rainy and sunny days. I can watch my writing evolve from the naive narratives of princesses and fairies; to science fiction; to introspective paragraphs about the parts of the world that I find interesting. Often, the stories I write don’t follow a ground-breaking narrative arc or include any of the morals and themes for which I analyse others’ work. But I think that writing has always helped me to understand the world around me. As a child, I examined the world through a lens of fairy tales and fantasy, and now the focus of that lens has shifted to that of a science and philosophy based perspective.
But in any context, I have, and will always, write because of a necessity to give shape to the chaos that swirls otherwise rampantly through the world around me.

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