Where Paper Dreams Fly

I was not looking for writing when it found me. It arrived quietly, in the spaces between assignments and late nights, when the world felt too loud and my thoughts had nowhere else to go. There were moments when my voice felt small, swallowed by expectations, when speaking meant being misunderstood and unheard. Writing became the only place where I could speak without interruption, where my feelings — so often silenced and suppressed — were allowed to exist fully. On the page, I did not have to shrink myself, because language listened, and for the first time, I felt seen.

I have always thought of myself as a jack of all trades, master to none. I tried many ways of creating, like painting, sketching, even learning instruments. However, I was always only average, never quite enough to feel certain or proud. Each hobby demanded a kind of skill my hands could not fully give, and comparison followed closely behind. Writing was different. When I found it, I felt free and unburdened, because it did not ask for perfect technique or polished talent. There was no right or wrong way to write what came from the heart, and I realized that anything born honestly from feeling could never truly be wrong.

The moment it became clear to me when I understood that my voice alone was not enough to reach others. I had so much to say, so much I wanted to share, yet spoken words often vanished before they could land. Writing, especially in a world so tangled with screens and fleeting attention, gave my thoughts a place to linger. A post, a paragraph, a few chosen words could travel farther than my voice ever could. Even if some turned away, my words remained — seen, read, and undeniably heard.

Not all my words were meant for the world. Many remained private, tucked away like fragile fragments of myself — secrets, truths I wasn’t ready to share, pieces of my soul too delicate to risk. In my home, where speaking sometimes felt like standing at a firing line, my journal became a sanctuary. When everyone else misunderstood me, it held the real me — the self no one else could see. It knows me better than anyone, like a quiet twin who carries my thoughts without judgement. Writing became my escape. In those moments, the world falls away, and all that exists is the steady pulse of my own mind, finally free to speak. Here, in ink and paper, I find my rhythm. Words twist and turn in ways my voice never could, carrying the weight of what I could not say aloud. And in that silence, it cradles the quiet ache inside me, offering a gentle warmth against the loneliness I carry.

My earliest influences in writing came from books, though I wasn’t much of a reader at first. I was eight when I received my very first book: Don’t Judge a Girl by Her Cover, the third book in Ally Carter’s Gallagher Girls series. Before that, I barely cared for reading — I was a visual learner, drawn to motion and images, watching the world rather than imagining it. At first, I ignored the book, since it wasn’t even the full series. But in those long, quiet days without a phone or laptop, when the TV froze or fell silent, I picked it up, and something inside me stirred. I read about girl spies and discovered secret thrill — stories could carry me somewhere beyond my room, beyond the walls that had always felt so confining. Words could take flight. 

As I grew, the cost of books nudged me toward ebooks, and eventually toward Wattpad. That’s where I began to write my own stories. Ideas sparked like firecrackers in my mind, and I would rush to write their prologues immediately. Yet the stories often stopped at the first chapter, creativity fading or laziness creeping in. If I had finished them all, I might have fifty or more worlds of my own by now. Before that first book, I knew only textbooks, their pages filled with formulas, symbols, and rigid shapes. Letters and words were simply lines and curves to memorize, patterns to follow — they had no life, no pulse. I never questioned them. Until that first book showed me otherwise.

As I got older, I gravitated toward nonfiction as well, seeking voices that mirror my own thoughts and emotions. Reading a book that seemed to understand exactly what I felt was quietly magical. When you cannot make sense of yourself, especially as a teenage girl overflowing with feelings, finding words that capture the unspoken inside you is like discovering a secret doorway. Those books taught me that writing is not only craft, it is courage. They shaped my voice, whispering that honesty matters more than perfection, that my thoughts, when placed into words with care, could linger and echo, quietly touching someone else, just as those books had touched me.

Now, after nearly ten years of writing whatever flows from my heart, I’ve learned that some topics are so close to me that words almost spill onto the page naturally. My first drafts are, of course, always a mess, but in that chaos you can see how my mind moves — from one thought to another, skipping and looping, discovering connections as it goes. Even as a high school student in the STEM track, I never drifted from this hobby, since writing is a skill we practice every day, in small and quiet ways, in the routines of life. Each time I write, I let my mind guide me wherever it wants to go.

Reorganizing those thoughts is always the hardest part. I wrestle with which sentences should come first, how ideas should flow, and why something seems out of place. My essays were often criticized for this wandering quality. But over the years, reading widely and writing regularly has taught me to adapt. I borrow little pieces of style from books or articles I love, though sometimes I overuse a new word or phrase I’ve discovered. I usually begin by exploring what I already know about the topic, sometimes doing a bit of research, but most of what I write remains deeply personal, pulled from my own experiences and reflections. My writing often circles around mental health, childhood, girlhood, and memory — threads that appear even in assignments like food essays, play scripts, flash fiction, or poetry. First drafts can be too short or too lengthy, messy or incomplete, but they are always mine.

My first draft of the food essay was, to me, a mess — confusing, scattered, and almost unrecognizable. It was my first time writing about food in an academic yet personal way, and the hardest part was choosing a local dish that truly meant something to me. There were many foods I loved, but few were tied to memories I felt ready to touch. Eventually, I realized that the memory did not have to be joyful to be meaningful. I chose adobong nokus, focusing on its bittersweet flavor: the bitterness reflecting my father’s absence, and the sweetness symbolizing the resilience my mother and I learned to carry. Writing about my father is deeply personal, as I rarely speak of him, intentionally so, even to those closest to me. That essay became one of the few spaces where I allowed that silence to break.

In writing the drama play script on an airplane scene, my first outline leaned heavily on the fiction I had consumed over the years — stories of longing and hopeless romance. The revisions were few but significant, most of them aimed at deepening the main character and revealing why she yearned so intensely for love. I came to realize that I often project parts of myself onto the character I write. By drawing from my own emotions, I give them depth, allowing their desires and fears to feel lived-in rather than imagined.

For my flash fiction, I chose to write about an especially sensitive subject: self-injury. It is a tragedy that has left lasting marks on my heart, some wounds that may never fully heal. My first draft read like a journal entry — raw, unfiltered, and unaware of form. I did not yet understand in media res, so the story felt like several chapters compressed into a few paragraphs. In revising, I stripped away the background and focused on implication, finding a quieter yet more powerful way to tell the story without being explicit. Finally for the poem, I stepped outside my comfort zone. I do not consider myself a poet, so I simply did my best in writing my assigned quintain. Thankfully, my partner shared a similar rhythm and sensibility, and together we created something cohesive, without a jarring shift in tone or voice.

Majoring in creative writing in college is a risk. Writing, for me, has always been something that flows from the heart — something that cannot truly be judged as correct or wrong. Still, I took the risk because my goal is not to chase grades, but to learn, explore, and enjoy the journey. Our course began with Walwicz’s essay No, No, No: The Reluctant Debutante, and it sparked something in me. Yes — creative writing is not linear, rigid, or objective, it is subjective, alive, and deeply personal. Yet that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have room to grow. The introduction to OIE — Observation, Interpretation, Evaluation — was eye-opening. Having fellow freshmen analyze my work made me realize how much we are learning together. Their critiques, coming from peers with similar capacities, showed me perspectives I hadn’t considered. 

My professor’s feedback, however, is the most significant. While my peers’ opinions are often subjective, my professor’s guidance is objective, pointing out technical elements I might overlook and showing me how to write more efficiently. Moreover, deadlines are still a challenge. They turn writing from a joy into an obligation. Sometimes the perfect sentence comes to me only after submitting the assignment, or I need just a little more time for revision — but the world does not wait. These assignments, while necessary, often steal the time I might spend in my journal, the space where my words can truly wander freely. Yet I recognize their value — each critique, each structured task, shapes my voice and hones my craft, guiding me toward a more confident and capable writer

Writing, for me, has always been an intimate act, and sharing it beyond myself sometimes makes me uncomfortable. It is like meeting someone for the first time and offering them a glimpse of my inner life, knowing that this glimpse may shape their first impression of who I am. Because of this fear, I have learned to filter my own words. There are truths I soften, sentences I leave unfinished, thoughts I keep hidden, even when I know there is more I could and should say. I simplify not because my experiences are simple, but because some parts of me have learned to protect themselves.

Yet in time, I came to understand that there is nothing shameful about being seen. To open up is not a weakness but an act of quiet bravery. Writing asks for honesty, and honesty asks for trust — both from the writer and the reader. If my words are to matter, then my voice must be allowed to sound fully, unedited by fear. I write so others may understand where I am coming from, and why I choose words as my way of reaching out. What once frightened me now urges me forward. I turn this fear into motivation, hoping that through writing, I may finally undo the years of being misunderstood, and allow my truth to take its rightful place on the page. 

As I move forward, I no longer see writing as something I must search for or prove myself worthy of. It has already chosen me, returning again and again in moments of confusion, silence, and becoming. I am still learning how to trust my voice, how to let it exist without apology or excessive guarding, but now I understand that growth does not mean abandoning vulnerability — it means carrying it with care. Writing will continue to change with me, shaped with new lessons, sharper critique, and deeper courage. Some words will remain private, others will step into the light, but all of them will come from the same honest place. And as long as I know that writing will remain my home, a space where I am allowed to exist fully, and where my voice, at last, is enough.