A strong writer must first read, then talk and listen

A writer is first a reader. Luckily, I’ve long since overcome the obstacle of learning how to read, yet the struggle of what to read persists. There’s also the question of what kind of writer I want to be, and the short answer is a good one. To accomplish this, I’ll need to read more than the assigned readings from my creative writing class. I’ll need to read blogs and billboards, faces and gestures, people and the rooms they fill, moments, mornings, nights, nudges, arguments and the affections that follow, emotions and the actions they provoke and at least a few of the now nameless hardcovers that have blended into the background that was once my bookshelf. I’ll need to focus on the state of things as they actually exist. I’ll need to notice all the little happenings that are regularly missed.

To follow up on the foundation built by reading, the next step is to talk to people. Dreadful, I know. Nevertheless, I’ll start to talk to people. I’ll talk to the people from my classes and the people struggling through physics assignments in the basement of Pengel. I’ll talk to people on the Link, especially the ones that plop down next to me after a successful thirsty Thursday. I’ll talk to my coworkers and the frustrated callers at the IT Help Desk who’ve already tried restarting their computers. I’ll talk to audiences who may or may not enjoy my poetry. I’ll talk to my friend in Alabama about his situation-ship drama, and we’ll reminisce about high school and that trip we took to China the summer before senior year to do a robotics competition and were on TV and fell asleep watching “Jumanji” with our new Australian friends who were sweet enough to tuck us in. I’ll talk to my physics advisor and tell him that, after four years of applied physics, I’m thinking about dropping everything to pursue my writing career. He’ll think I’m joking. I’ll let him. I’ll talk to my campus crush, and if that goes well, I can write a riveting love story about a couple who grows old together and isn’t brutally murdered or accidentally blown up. If it doesn’t go so well, I can write about heartbreak…again.

I’ll talk to my parents about how they should probably reduce their expectations to zero, because I just might decide to wander this earthly plane scribbling across a page until my fingers cramp up, prompting me to talk to my doctor about early onset arthritis. I’ll talk to my younger brothers. I’ll tell them to go outside more to craft slingshots and pipe guns and water bombs and play Call of Duty old-school warfare. I’ll tell them that nothing’s worth more than their dreams. I’ll tell them not to stay in one place, to explore and collect stories. I’ll talk to myself a lot more than I already do. I’ll talk to my ceiling and the view outside my window. I’ll talk to each individual brick that makes up the left wall of Quad 341.

At some point I’ll realize I’ve been talking too much, and I’ll start to listen. I’ll listen to music from renown composers like Tchaikovsky and hip hop hotties like Meghan Thee Stallion. I’ll listen to my electromagnetism professor talk about the forces between charges. I’ll listen to the sound of the snowplows at work in the mornings. I’ll listen to the chatter in the Reef. I’ll listen to Brother Paul when he reminds me again that volunteering with BVC for a year after graduation will be the best decision of my life. I’ll listen to my best friend when she echoes my advice to not panic about our future but focus on enjoying our lives right now. I’ll listen to my inner child when he wants to melt crunchy peanut butter over a tub of cookies n’ cream and watch westerns all weekend because it reminds him of summers with Grandpa. I’ll listen to those multicolored splotches on the globe when they call me by name.

Then I’ll write.