This May, I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English literature along with some minors. I currently reside in Japan. What was meant to be three months turned out to be significantly more. I have been applying to entry-level remote and in-person positions, but due to a high volume of applicants, I still needed to have experience from experience. I had a couple of interviews in April, but time zones wouldn’t have worked on their end. What I hoped for this summer was a steady remote job to build a marketing portfolio and continue traveling.
Let’s just say not much has been happening for someone who likes to move around a lot. Part of my problem is I don’t have a job yet. With this restriction, I am left to think about what I can do to improve.
Finally, it was six in the morning, I decided to create this blog.
What I want this blog to be is a reflection on my experiences and examine my writing as I grow older, but the other problem I have is I can’t write for sh*t. This has been a problem throughout my undergrad and high school, but why?
Most of the writing I’ve done was in college. I wrote many essays, analyses, short stories, and badly written poetry. All collecting dust now. I’ve been fearing the blinking cursor on this blank page like a metronome swaying while my own heart pumps with anxiety, questioning if I will sing off-key. I ask myself several times if I will ever master writing, if I will ever be good enough to be part of the literary world, not to sound like Ariel from The Little Mermaid.
THE IMPEDIMENTS
I developed a passion for reading and writing fiction during my childhood because, for me, world-building was the closest thing to traveling. I would have liked to believe that mermaids and jungle warriors could coexist on a far-off planet. I created small comic books about them and sold them for fifty cents in elementary school, but like any coming-of-age story, I abandoned those worlds, leaving them cold and empty from their energy source—inspiration and imagination. During middle and high school, I would leave most of my earlier writing projects unfinished because not many teachers believe that being a writer could be a stable career choice. I continued to write regardless of them indoctrinating STEM careers. While my brother went out with pretty girls at the mall, I sat between shelves in Barnes and Noble. I devoted myself to reading every English classic there was. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford to buy them, and I didn’t have a shelf to house them in. In high school, I was couchsurfing every day after practice since we didn’t have a home yet.
With the pressures of school and my housing situation, I started viewing life through a survival curve and couldn’t focus on my stories. I needed to be the crème de la crème. I saw everyone as a potential competitor. I didn’t have many close friends besides one. I didn’t see the true value in having friends. In addition, I felt that I was incompetent and that my intelligence was limited, so I spent most of my time trying to fix what I wasn’t born with.
Mistakes, whether financial or physical, appeared to be costly and irreversible. Coming from a low-income household, my mom and I unacknowledged the mental stress we felt because we were occupied with fixing tangible errors such as having basic needs like food and shelter. We didn’t talk about the stress it caused us. We just reassured that everything would turn out to be okay. During this time, we both fell into the hands of the all-or-nothing mindset. Any small mistake that I’ve made would impact my future self. “If I got into an Ivy League then I would be someone” was my reason to attend any big-name universities, and to distract my mom when I planned on coming out. I wrote many pity-me-I-am-poor essays to several colleges, hoping I stand out from a pool of future politicians and scientists. Believe me, I had more humiliating rejections on Valentine’s Day. No rejection could match Yale, my dream school. The rejection happened during my night shift at Taco Bell. I opened the letter and read it. The burning sting was like buying a Wonka Bar right before Charlie Bucket walked in. “Someone out there got in,” I thought.
WRITING FOR THE WRONG REASONS
I began writing after I officially decided to be an English major, but I wrote to be recognized rather than to be helped. I didn’t take criticism lightly at first. I was high up on my horse that I failed to see comments as constructive. I would treat my drafts as if they were timed finals. My education depended on them, but I placed them to have the same weight as prioritizing sleep or food. I aimed to avoid the number of corrections and comments to the best of my ability, mostly to help my professors save ink. I detested and feared mistakes in high school and in college. My professors would return a seed with the potential to grow. To me, they were handing back a mirror to correct myself. I did “correct myself” by taking more effective notes, annotating readings, and going to the writing center. Once the tutor and I parted ways, I would look back at my paper and I would feel like I didn’t make any progress. Again, I was hoping to stand out from the pile of essays my professors would be reading. I wanted to be recognized for having an original insight for the reading, but why did recognition matter so much to me? I was socially anxious and excruciatingly introverted because, like the notoriety of wax cola bottles on Halloween, I didn’t think my classmates would be interested in having a conversation with me, let alone, read a paper from me. I told myself that my opinions and reasons didn’t really matter, especially in a classroom where most came from affluent neighborhoods and had done impressive things. I understood how to survive life, but not live it. If I wasn’t great at making friends in high school, I wouldn’t be great at making friends in college or befriend professors in the English department. I silently struggled alone in my dorm room for most of my first year.
I decided to go to office hours for the first time in my second year of college. Attending office hours was out of the norm for me. Part of my reason to go to office hours was to understand the choice of men in Madame Bovary and French masculinity, but mostly to get advice on writing and feeling like an imposter. In hindsight, I probably went to the wrong department. I didn’t have many questions, to begin with, but was determined to leave the office with a profound perspective and hope to return the next day.
Instead, I was inspected for how someone from my background can be in college, not a single word was spoken about the novel or about writing. I left with only a bitter taste in my mouth. Questions about if I was the right student to be in college kept interrupting my writing process like pesky flies to a mule. I was saddened about my abilities, confused if I was being insulted, and frustrated at my work. What would I know if I was just a college student with not much experience in writing books, without peer-reviewed articles, or any fellowships? The comments made by my professor were important to me because who better knows my experience and capabilities than a white, middle-aged man? I value my professors’ input because they are professionals in their fields. This interaction halted my drive to be a writer and affected my major choice.
My mind hissed, “You don’t belong here” before walking into class. I felt inferior to my classmates. Everything that I wrote felt like it wouldn’t be taken seriously. My passion for reading and writing dimmed. The worlds I created in high school were surely enough gloomy graveyards by now. Then, COVID-19 halted the world for a moment, followed by the George Floyd Protests later in that summer. Racial issues continue to plague American society. The demand for change and reparations catapulted voices from various minority groups to be heard. I read several inspirational stories of people of color. One essay I read was about the importance of oral tradition in Central America. Storytelling and reciting poems were actions that my mom would do daily. She was a gifted speaker, but in my years, I never gained that confidence until the pandemic.
At the beginning of my third year, I got comfortable with myself, not only because I was on my bed in my pajamas and needed to avoid others, but because I finally understood what it meant to be heard, especially as a person of color from Texas. I continued to express myself regardless of my shaky voice over Zoom. I felt inspired to write little stories in my spare time and picked up drawing again. I knew and understood the power of writing and sharing ideas, but did I possess that power as well was still the impending question.
Bracing myself for my thesis, I was excited to finally have made it this far and ready to take my writing to the next level, a bit iffy. My whole attention was on writing my thesis on Shelley’s Mathilda and participating in the scholar’s event that fall. I was inundated by incestual articles from the Romantic Period and occasionally high from sugar-coated CBD gummies. I didn’t have much experience with edibles, so I didn’t think twice about it. The side effects numbed my emotions and lowered my intuition. I felt frustrated and unsatisfied with my thesis. I also began to be highly competitive because again, I wanted to be recognized for it. At the beginning of the semester, I thought I already found my voice, but I lost it at the end of my thesis because of overconsumption and self-doubt.
After I completed my thesis. I arrived back in my hometown and that was it for my writing. I didn’t think I would pick it up again. My personal life went up to flames and I held the kerosene canister. I became the antagonist and ended up hurting the person I cared about the most. In addition, my study abroad program got canceled again, delaying my graduation for this year which also delayed my partner and I to officially live together. Life seemed to be headed in a bad direction. My mind focused on all the mistakes that I began to mentally self-flagellate myself for who I was becoming. Everything around me grew cold and empty from emotions as my passion for writing.
I worked as a full-time waiter while my academics were on standby for fall. The hours and the customers that I faced were not worth the stress nor the treatment. I would have dreams of waiting tables or sleep talk an order. The financial part wasn’t terrible which made the job deceiving, but the repetition was purgatory. I had yet to graduate, but I was fearful that after my program, I return to wait more tables. I saw that others would get comfortable with the job. At that point in my life, I wanted a career that can fill my void with happiness, not just my pockets. My Achille’s heel is being overly ambitious while simultaneously being disappointed. I understood that building a career path takes time, but I wanted to start already. I couldn’t be seeking long-term positions because I would be leaving again and had to wait for another semester for my official diploma. My thesis ended with no opportunities, I failed at being a good partner, and I wasn’t doing anything with my degree. I felt humiliated going through life, but trust me, the outcome was the longest walk of shame.
REGAINED SENSIBILITY
With no motivation, no goals, and no clear destinations for where I would land. My writing became obsolete. I needed to work on myself. The cheapest solution I had was to buy a journal since therapy is mostly for the rich and the Catholicism in my mom would say that a trip to the confession booth was enough. I didn’t even bother to spend more than fifteen minutes because my handwriting wasn’t aesthetically pleasing. I wrote only when dark thoughts suffocated me late at night. I wrote about myself and what I was doing each day. It was hard to see the light in things when I would wake up with a mourning veil to talk about cheesecakes for the remainder of my days in Texas.
My writing progress went from self-hatred to observing my surroundings. Frank Ocean sang, “You dreamed of walls that hold us imprisoned/It’s just a skull least that’s what they call it/And we’re free to roam.” This poignant lyric from “White Ferrari” describes the power of self-doubt. Thoughts can feel uncontrollable, even more, when we are at the deep end, but the outside only requires some of our senses to distract us. In mid-August, I moved out of my partner’s apartment and moved back in with my mom. Every morning, she would leave to work, and every night we would spend hours talking. Sometimes we drive to an empty parking lot just to eat tortas and drink horchatas. Before heading to bed, I would write about being with my mom and how much I care about her. It felt good to write a pleasant memory down. I wasn’t aware that my writing needed a balance between the positives and the negatives.
On the day I left for my program, I felt the excitement of traveling and studying once again, but how could I possibly be enjoying myself when a deep melancholia began to settle back in me? I changed my scenery, but occasionally, I bellowed late at night in the hostels. My melancholia took pleasure out of most things, but I began to write about my solitude and hurt. The mistakes I made in my personal life were stains on present-me. There were times when I thought I was bluffing my altruism when I met others like some politician. I would write about my desire and value to make friends and how much I wanted to belong to a place where I can call home again. It was also the holidays, so I noticed how lonely I felt.
I traveled during and after my program. The friends I made along the way, the art museums I visited, and wandering around each city while listening to music are happy memories that I missed out on because of my mindset. Friendship renewed my values, and myself and regain a sensibility that I had experienced when I used to play with Monster High dolls.
After the holidays, I left Germany and headed to Japan to visit my sister, who I haven’t seen since my high school graduation. I told her that I was going to stay from March to May because I anticipated heading back to Germany to spend my summer there. I wasn’t concerned about my finances because I thought I had a secured paid internship. That was my mistake, and I was now a broke, recent graduate in Japan. I was burned out by applications that required me to input my resume and write cover letters.
I needed a positive distraction from not having a job. I picked up drawing, running, learning Japanese, and cleaning up the beach within these past months, but I wasn’t being distracted long enough. It was unbearable to feel I had no practical value in society, but I wasn’t alone. I had my sister and my brother-in-law, whose relationship I’ve admired since I was in high school. They motivated me to take every day with a grain of salt and to tread softly on the Okinawan beaches rather than in haste.
The feeling of being stuck usually means change is bound to happen. It’s only a matter of when. What I wanted the most after graduating is to work as a journalist, but I didn’t have the credentials yet. I didn’t know what I could do to prove that I was a worthy writer for any publishing company. For several years, I told myself that I was a terrible writer, and maybe I am, but I have the drive to improve.
I decided to write again once I got here since reality can dry up sources for inspiration. I turned to read books and challenge myself to write every day. Finally, I decided to take matters into my own hands and create this WordPress blog, which you, dear reader, are reading this story from.
What I learn about writing is to not let my mind overindulge in the negatives. To be fair, I wasn’t the happiest kid at the playground. Life had many curveballs and more to come. The mind has such power that it can make us see life through a microscope, fixated on problems rather than solutions, especially when we have external speakers voicing out what life should be and look like.
My writing experience continues to be a battle with self-doubt. Why I struggled with writing was the way I looked at the world and myself in it. It was an internal battle that I am still trying to conquer even at the age of twenty-three. What I used to value back then, I do not now. What I wish I had learned back then; I am learning to do it now.
Woolf perfectly summarizes why I created this blog in A Room of One’s Own. She states that by having a room, writers can engage in their uninterrupted writing time. While she is talking about a physical space, I manage to create this virtual room for myself. This was the luxury I was missing growing up. I shared every space from a room with my brother and sister to a spring box with my mom. The lack of privacy didn’t allow me to gather my thoughts and figure out who I was or wanted to be. The snippets of freedom and privacy I experienced during my study abroad programs in high school were mine in college. I gained even more autonomy by having my own room in a shared apartment with some friends. However, I took for granted my living space and did not realize the benefits it came with.
As I continue to travel, I place myself in uncomfortable social settings to grow comfortable with myself. My journal became my mobile room, my friend, and my therapist which is why I decided to share my side of things on this blog. While I did not manage to write in a consistent manner in my journal, to say I didn’t write almost every day wouldn’t be an exaggeration. It became my personal favorite downtime. My phone likes to report they were resting about 70% each week. I learned to observe the world and to be at peace with its flaws as I have my fickle insecurities. I learned to respect myself regardless of my age (yes, life continues after your teens), my race, and my current financial status. It takes a lot of mental power to not think negatively about who I was in the past. I didn’t remove the thoughts, only relocated them to a page where I can access them to reread. Writing mended my broken heart, collected memories that could be erased by old age, and will forever be a reminder of who to not be tomorrow. Did I sing off-key?
(If you made it this far, I thank you for your time and for reading my first post)
K.A.P.