I Can't Write

This is an assignment from Maya Inspektors' AP English Lang and Composition class. Our goal was to write a personal narrative about some aspect of our development as a reader/writer. I really enjoy this class and receiving detailed feedback to improve! :)

. . . . . . .

I can’t write.

Empty chip bags, eraser crumbs, and a musty, library-smelling To Kill a Mockingbird lay across my desk. My alarm clock, to the right of me, read 11:47 pm.

Thirteen minutes before it was due. 

Dark circles under my eyes were apparent by the glow of the laptop’s screen. My eyes glazed over the jumbled mess of words I had quickly put together. My head ached from the past two hours of difficult brainstorming. Words wouldn’t come naturally. They felt blocked by an invisible barrier that shielded my original thoughts and ideas that wanted to surface, but were stopped by my need to make this essay “sound” good. 

I took my tired eyes off my laptop screen for a moment. They landed on the dusty, neglected guitar beside my bed. A thin coat of dirt was layered on the strings as a result of being forgotten for a few months. I used to be obsessed with playing the guitar, but high school left no more time for that. Even my instrument felt like a reminder of my love for writing…I just couldn’t reach it. 

11:53 pm

I re-read my last sentence: “Examining Atticus's final point can help readers think about the complexities of the legal system and the importance of maintaining morals in the face of injustice.” Quickly, I typed the word “think” into the thesaurus and scanned for the most formal-sounding word. I found “surmise” and replaced the two, not bothering to look up the meaning. 

11:57 pm

With three minutes to spare, which was a new record for me, I submitted my work. I was relieved. Not because I felt that I wrote a great essay, but because it was done. This was my routine for completing every essay. 

What’s the point of writing anyway? I would often question myself when faced with a new, daunting task of another composition. Clearly, my future career would not involve putting words on paper. As an introvert, it was hard enough to voice my thoughts, opinions, and ideas out loud. Somehow, writing them seemed harder. My friend, who enjoys writing a lot more than I do, shared that she occasionally has “writer’s block,” which refers to the condition in which the writer is unable to proceed writing due to stress and perfectionism. If you looked this term up on Google, an image of me would probably appear. 

A few months later, my mom picked up my procrastination routine for writing. 

“What happened, Riley? You used to love writing when you were younger. Remember when you used to write your own stories?”

I did remember. 

A six-year-old girl sat cross-legged on the floor, littered with an assortment of crayons. Her bangs were stuck against her forehead as a result of the summer heat. She was unaware of her bickering siblings, the barking dogs, and the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen. All she could see were the pages in front of her, full of raw imagination and a place that took her beyond the human world. Sometimes, as she worked, she would hum a soft little tune to match her stories. They were melodies only she could understand, and they were entirely hers. 

She flipped another page, which took her to a secret garden where she could talk to animals. Her crayon was a pathway to her fantasy land, and every word let her indulge in the magic of the world she crafted. She could write so freely, unjudged, unchecked, and ungraded. The bustle and constant movement around her slowed as if time itself paused for her to create a different life. Hours would pass by, irrelevant to the world designed by her with a stubby crayon. 

As years passed by, the freedom I felt slowly drifted away. Words still held a power over me. No longer were they about the secret garden of talking animals, but they turned into deadlines and grading rubrics. Every word should be thoughtful, purposeful, and valuable. Pens replaced crayons, and spontaneity was lost in writing with a specific style, tone, and word count. The joy and pleasure the freedom of words once gave me vanished under the pressure to please. 

As high school came around, writing became more of a chore than an escape. Every assignment prompted me to “Analyze the author’s purpose…,” “compare and contrast…,” or “write about your personal growth…” Writing was confined to rules and limits. 

I used to be able to write in a flash. Immediately transferring the unfiltered wonder, curiosity, and imagination onto my page. Now, more time was spent staring at a blank page than actually filing them. Hunched over my laptop with notebooks and gel highlighters scattered on my desk, the six-year-old inside me refused to cooperate. Words were forced, and every sentence served to be a chain on my ingenuity. I couldn’t write the way that the rules required me to. 

That girl who could once write for hours was now stuck for hours. However, deep down, I know that she who found joy in inventing characters, imagining worlds, and playing with words was waiting for her moment to find her way back to writing.  

One night, I found myself stuck in the abyss of stress from homework, dance competitions, and expectations. High school life felt chaotic, full of deadlines and societal pressures, all piling up like a stack of unread books. Huddled up in blankets, hair a disheveled mess, and my cheap guitar, bought off of Amazon, still in the same place it had been in for almost years now, I was tired of it all. Without thinking, I pulled out my phone, which cast a blue light on my weary expression. 

Immediately, I opened my Notes app and started typing.

I didn’t worry about structure, grammar, or style. I just wanted these raging, swirling thoughts and feelings out of my head. The words spilled out like a dam being broken, uneven, broken, and messy, but they completely belonged to me. Writing consisted of my frustrations, hopes, and it let me release, and for the first time since I wrote about the secret garden and talking animals, words let me breathe. 

I instinctively picked up the guitar beside me and soon experimented with lyrics. At first, my fingers fumbled, but then they regained balance. The chords didn’t feel forced, polished, or perfect, but they resonated and rang clearly.  My fingers grazed the strings softly at first, but then fuller, like a voice that regained strength to speak after staying silent for so long. 

Words didn’t need to be found through a thesaurus; they flowed loosely from my mind to my pen. The jumbled mess of words turned into lyrics that released all my thoughts into a simple melody. Something stirred inside me, and I felt her.

The six-year-old girl.

Not as a memory from the past, but as a present, attentive child. She held in her hands, not crayons, but an instrument. Her presence was an encouragement, as if she’d been waiting patiently for me to stop the perfectionism and start listening to her again. She made me realize that writing had never left me. It had just shifted and taken on a different form. Instead of being an essay prompt or analysis, it was a raw, unapologetic moment like this. 

Words could be paired with music.

Words were chosen because they felt honest, not impressive.

Words were a pathway of writing, not just how I was told to, but how I once loved to. 

I can write.