The Pen Would Always Find Her

She who writes reality is going on a short hiatus to do some writing of a far less interesting kind (ie. final exams). I’ll leave you with this revelation, this reminder in the form of the post “The Pen Would Always Find Her”. To be honest, it’s mainly a reminder for myself. This time last year I had just decided to stop running away from writing and in a very dramatic act fit for a writer who doesn’t shy away from unnecessarily flamboyant but symbolic acts, I gave away all my LSAT prep books and threw out the sheets of practice tests and information about law schools. Now I’m pursuing something that seems a lot more uncertain and a lot less what-a-good-daughter-who-is-here-on-scholarship should be doing, but I’m doing it anyway. I read this sentence in an article the other day: “You have a much higher chance of getting into Harvard Law than of being accepted into an MFA program”, or something to that effect. Ultimately, all I want to do is write. And I’m just trying to find ways to do that and to be incredible at it. I’ve decided that my writing is the absolute best piece of myself I can give. Here’s to grasping at passing clouds and maybe missing them by the edge of a nail, or possibly grabbing a handful and propelling yourself higher into the stratosphere.

she who writes reality

She cut her teeth on Cry the Beloved Country, and Maya Angelou’s defiant biography nursed her growing pains.  Matilda and What Katy Did were quickly discarded for more irreverent works. She craved writing that didn’t feel safe and homely, writing that was definitely inappropriate for a girl her age. Her appetite for books was insatiable, and yet, it grew to become a natural part of her being. Devouring books for breakfast, or in the car on the long commute home, or on the toilet before bed, were everyday occurrences for her. She laughed a raucous, daring laugh with Sula and played with the children in Anita Desai’s luscious garden in the balmy Indian sunset.  She was never really curled up in an old armchair in a small house on a dusty street somewhere in Accra; she was watching in awe as the owner of the plantation controlled Liana so effortlessly…

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