Grammar, structure, syntax and organization are words with no meaning to a fifth grader. These elemental words are the foundation to building the house for a strong essay and practical writing skills. However, my mind was not ready for this daunting task. I had always loved to read, so I tried to connect the dots between reading and writing. However, writing was foreign and something I couldn’t seem to master. My confusion for the subject turned to hate.

Six years later, it is my only solace — a steady constant in a life so chaotic. A girl who once hated the concept of an essay now writes one of her own free will to be published every week. Writing is a silver thing, sparkling and glimmering, yet you see yourself in every whisper of the words you create. I was enamored by beautiful words, such as: trellis, lavender, and comradery. Each syllable producing a delicious sound that marinates your vocal chords until it’s yours — sublimely separate, until you give it meaning. I could control anything on that paper, a quality I did not appreciate as a child. Writing gave me ownership and accountability.

Sometimes the process makes me want to scream as every little sound seems distracting, or my mind betrays the pen and paper and leaves me to deal with a blank canvas. I try to suckle inspiration from torn books with battered spines, like a hummingbird searching for nectar. Occasionally, it works. Other times, I am left in awe, yet I am bitter because of my own failure to create. The passion to wonder, to regain ownership of the story, never leaves my bones because writing has taken me prisoner. I never want to be set free.

As a lover of words, I say this:

Writers are mothers

Giving life to words with no meaning

Teaching how to use a voice inside all

Giving birth to a new future

While creating lessons from the past

Holding stories in their hearts like newborn babies

I want to be able to call myself a writer one day

A woman of words