With Ink as My Voice free essay sample

When I became tired of pacing back and forth in my grandparents’ foyer attempting to count to 500, I wrote instead, first on printer paper in multi-colored pen, then on the yellow paper in my grandmother’s electric typewriter. It was exciting, to my eight-year-old self, to see my thoughts written out in ink. I still have those first stories. I like to look at them every once in awhile, because it reminds me of what I’ve known this whole time: Writing was, and would always be, what shaped my life. Growing up, â€Å"quiet† and â€Å"shy† were the most common words used to describe me. Whether it was a teacher, a fellow classmate, or a family member, someone always had to comment on how I â€Å"never talked.† Honestly, I didn’t talk all that much when I was younger. Some combination of elementary school bullying and just being naturally introverted had caused me to be reserved. We will write a custom essay sample on With Ink as My Voice or any similar topic specifically for you Do Not WasteYour Time HIRE WRITER Only 13.90 / page It was something I struggled with, but being reserved definitely had its upsides – one being that I thought a lot. My mom likes to call it a â€Å"rich inner life.† I had worlds inside my head, opinions and ideas that I hadn’t a clue how to share. While many people assumed that I was rude, or unintelligent, or just didn’t have anything to say, those who knew me knew better. During those times when I didn’t know how to use my voice to express my thoughts, ink became my voice. I was 10 when I received my first computer, and shortly thereafter the thoughts and ideas stored in my head and written in my notebooks began to take shape in words on a screen, and then in ink. People found out about my writing in high school when my English teacher read my essays aloud in class. My face would turn embarrassingly red, but there was no denying that I could write. I aced a college composition class, swept the awards in our county-wide literary journal, and was published multiple times. People began to recognize my talent, and I would thank them and think: I know. It gave me a confidence I’d never had before. My writing was a place where the volume of my voice didn’t matter – no one could tell me to speak up when they were reading my words in ink. â€Å"Too quiet† or not, everyone knew that I was a good writer, and most importantly, I did too. This confidence would help me grow throughout high school. At the end of my sophomore year I wrote a speech on the back of a notecard, and the last line read: â€Å"People may think that I can’t do it because I’m quiet, but I wouldn’t try if I thought I couldn’t do it.† My voice might have shaken when I said these words, but it didn’t matter because I became class president. Being a writer was my identity, and knowing people had read my stories and liked them made me believe in myself. At the end of junior year, I typed out words and spoke them at the graduation ceremony, and my voice didn’t shake at all. When people told me I spoke wonderfully, I would thank them and think: I know. In my mind, my voice and the ink had become one and the same, and I could do anything. Almost 10 years later, I am not any less excited about seeing my thoughts in ink than I was at age eight. It is a feeling I will always crave. I doubt that when I’m 88 the thrill of sharing my words with others will have lessened at all. Ink will always be my voice, and writing will always be what drives my life.