The Writer I Am

I have been a self-identified writer since I was a teenager. Not a huge jump from the avid reader and daydreamer I grew up as– I knew that destiny already decided its course for me. But the thing is: I never wanted to write fiction.

That was the confusing bit for me; I loved escaping into the fantasies and narratives in novels, and I still remember my favorite book in third grade: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. In high school, English was my subject, and I took as many literature courses as I was allowed, constantly engrossed in the adventure of Greek mythology and the drama of Gothic fiction. But in my writing, all I sought was my own truth.

When it came to choosing what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, I was at a loss. My father pushed me to pursue law school, and my mother, knowing I would never follow in her footsteps of becoming a nurse, offered as much support as she could for whatever path I chose.

I remember venting about the pressures of this predicament to my childhood teacher-turned-tutor-turned adolescent mentor of mine, Lisa. She recalled that she always thought I'd be a writer when I grew up. I asked her how she knew, and she answered,

"Because you hated writing."

It's funny how some people just know. As we went through the options I'd have if I pursued writing, she brought up journalism, and it piqued my interest.

I threw myself into discovering journalism. I took a writer's workshop course during my senior year to strengthen my skills. I applied and got accepted into the #1 journalism school in the country, Emerson College. It all felt so perfectly aligned. For once, my life's purpose was not this far-away idea, but a concrete one I could stand upon.

I loved journalism school. We did fieldwork in my first foundations class – a gaggle of freshman babies unleashed onto the Boston Common, doing man-on-the-street interviews with locals on lunch break and confused tourists. I was always a shy person, but the path I had chosen for myself felt like the right one. It empowered me to do so many things I never thought I would. I covered protests on the weekends, I wrote, produced, and anchored a news show. I gained my footing. 

Sometime into my junior year, the stamina wore off, and I felt lost. I suddenly hated reporting. The news made me feel sick. It had been a year since Donald Trump was elected president, and it was a nightmare to me. Journalism felt hopeless. I was frightened by the future of news, censorship, and free speech, with the president already spouting lies and fake news rampantly. I did not want to work in an industry that filled me with intense fear and despair. 

But I took a class that changed my mind that same year: Cultural Criticism.

It introduced me to another form of journalism that I hadn't taken into account before. I learned how to examine culture with an analytical eye, and it soon became a favorite class of mine. It also allowed me to combine my passion for music, fine art, and literature with my journalism studies.

I now focus the majority of my writing within that same vein. Commentary on society, music reviews, and culture reporting became my niche. I took courses on music writing, entertainment reporting, and societal issues. When I did any sort of journalism, my mission was clear: to analyze and critique culture. It is this corner of writing I feel most comfortable in. 

It took a long time to get here, and I'm sure I am nowhere near finished in the quest for the one thing I ever wanted to write about: my truth.