I want to be a writer.

I fell in love with writing my first semester at Kent State in 2022, and to my surprise, my talent took over like wildfire. Throughout my short life thus far, my possession of “talent” has been missing; I’ve lacked aspiration and a role model to show me the joys of a skillful hobby. 

Despite my misdirection, I’ve found myself consumed in love with words and writing when nothing of substance had the power to consume me prior.

Work, bills, driving in traffic, dishes, cleaning, laundry, the f**ked-up truth that is my childhood and the only joy: the all-encompassing love for my cats and partner. That is what consumes me.

Writing gifts me the freedom of words, expression and creative liberty that are all cuddled up and kissing in love. Exploring words to complement each other in a way that can illustrate my personality and send a proper message has maybe become my drug of choice.

Okay, I’m not addicted to writing, but damn, it is invigorating to finish a work and love what you’ve created.

I write for myself. I write to get my thoughts out because I’m bad at engaging in serious, important conversations. I write because I don’t really like the sound of my voice, but I have something to say. I write because while I am outwardly opinionated and not afraid to hurt your feelings, I would rather leave a piece of me behind than say it out loud with a voice that sounds adolescent.

I write to make something of my life.

I haven’t had much to say for myself, but writing will leave a trail, writing will speak for me, and well. Writing will create a legacy of free will and strength that opens doors to travel and worldly excursions. Writing fosters exploration and when I search the word “exploration,” “ignorance” is its antonym. Ignorance will rear its ugly head in the face of a passion left ignored and unnurtured.

There are no words for the nurturer remaining unnurtured and longing for it. Have I always been resilient, or have I had to survive the mental and emotional instability that has been my world? Maybe these words that I write nurture and liberate my neglected inner child. Maybe I have a story to tell so deep down that writing has become my only vice. Writing can promote truth, my truth, that has gone left untold and unworried.

I want to be a writer. An eloquent and perpetually remarkable writer. I want people to use words like “brilliant,” “masterful” and “captivating” to describe me.

In my eyes, writers have always resembled intellect, precision, creativity and wit. I imagine messy hair and glasses dedicated to a work of masterful composition.

It may not make me much money, but it will make me rich in elation and veracity.

The veracious young woman, Carlina, writes an award-winning and national bestseller!

I’d like to write a book about my life, an autobiography if you will, but who would read it?

Would they weep?

Would it matter?

Does this matter?

I guess, anything matters as much as we make it, and writing matters. 

Writing promotes critical thinking and communication. Communication, in any sense, is quintessential to the success of humanity worldwide. Writing is expressional and really everyone writes, even if it’s your grocery list on paper or digital note.

Love letters.

Post-it notes.

Emails.

Instagram posts.

Banners.

Websites.

Poems.

Directions.

Recipes.

Rules.

News.

Text messages.

Everybody is writing all the time, but what is it worth? Your sanity? Memory? Is it worth love or vanity? Information and embodiment?

Surely, writing is worth the pleasure and enlightenment of readers, and the preservation of history.

Write to succeed, write to inform, write to love, write to express, write to write to write to write.

Write until “write” looks incorrectly spelled.

By now, I have ranted and raved into great oblivion. But I want to be a writer, and what, other than write, do writers do?

Carlina Krajnik is an opinion writer. Contact her at [email protected].