Doing an undergraduate degree in English is difficult. It requires hours of reading, looking up academic approved secondary literary sources, and writing 10 page essays only to have lecturers attempt to crush your motivations through their nitpicking.
As many young writers do, I strive to be published and heard. To have my name whispered in libraries. To have my controversial opinions debated. To be known solely on the basis of my surname on the front of a novel. I strive to make my parents, my friends, and everyone else who have pushed me forward, proud.
But I don’t write for them.
I write for the teenage girl in the back of the classroom twiddling her pen and daydreaming, because she’s bored. She is stuck learning the mechanics of the human mind rather than using her own. She is left regurgitating countless theorists and concepts while in her head she toils on the idea of alternate life forms and science fiction adventures. She is dulled and repressed and will never be told that it’s okay to be wide minded. I write for her. I write for the poet inside the rugby player. He gets up at 5am everyday to start training but just as he leaves he glances at the journal entries and the autobiographies and piling up literary genius sprawled across his desk and sighs. He leaves with a heavy heart, he leaves disappointed because nobody will ever understand that he finds the wake of dawn captivating as he trains. Nobody will ever understand that he cherishes the beautiful memory of each Robin that graces the pitch as he tackles on a crisp December morning.
I write for you because I was you. I waddled to college everyday, saxophone slung over my shoulder, and although I enjoyed playing I felt opposed. I was good at it, but who would I change? Yes it’s incredibly childish for me to say, and don’t laugh when I say it but… I want to change the world. Or at least some of it. I want to leave this earth knowing that I have impacted people in ways only religion could. That someone took the time to listen to someone they knew was struggling. That the student walking into that terrifying exam wasn’t the only one to feel like he feels. I want someone to have read what I’ve written and walked away knowing the value of time and how to cherish those we deem precious to us.
My final goal is to touch one person, or touch them all.