I have never labeled myself as a “writer.” Any teacher I had in high school could tell you how my good essays were–– when I actually managed to write enough to turn them in. Either of my parents would amiably reveal to you my tendency to procrastinate a paper until approximately 3 a.m. of the morning it’s due. My sister might show you the pages of one-verse songs that I scribbled out, too disgusted by my own failure to attempt coming up with a chorus, let alone finish. Writing is rarely enjoyable for me, so much to the point where I’d rather let my biology grade drop from a B to a D than compose a ten-page research paper. So why would I choose to torture myself by signing up for a class that focuses exclusively on writing?

Besides my intrinsic masochism, there are a few different reasons why I decided to add English 218, most of them minor. One reason is that I’m aware of and believe the cliché that practice makes perfect, or at least permanent. What better way to lessen my aversion to writing than to put myself in a place where I’d be forced to do that to which I object, under pressure of academic failure? While there is a possibility of it back-firing, causing me to despise assigned writing even more, my optimism here is that I’ll get used to it, or even better at it. Also, I’m hoping that by taking a creative writing class, as opposed to one that requires me to write only research and analysis, I can start to enjoy writing, and gain enough practice and confidence to appreciate my own writing, instead of dreading it, knowing that I’ll just hate whatever the end product is. This actually reveals the true reason I’m taking this class–– because secretly, I want to write. I want to do well at it. I want to love it. And the most profound reason, more than any other, that I want to be able to call myself a writer is because I look up to one person whom I do label a writer: Ben.

I met Ben the first day of my freshman year at college. While he was instantly friendly and talkative, I sensed that there was a much deeper part to him. He seemed be hiding some intelligence and experience that I couldn’t discover, let alone comprehend. But time went by, and while we became closer friends, he still didn’t let me (or anyone else I knew) see what dark mysteries he kept. Though almost unbearably intrigued, I eventually accepted that he wouldn’t open up to me, so I let it go–– until we were assigned a personal essay in the English class we had together. Our professor chose one of the finished, graded essays to read aloud to the class. From the very first sentence, the entire class sat in rapture, mesmerized as she quoted a story so astonishingly tragic, so heartbreakingly beautiful that I knew it was Ben’s. This was confirmed by the fact that while every other student’s eyes were fixated on the professor reading, Ben’s remained lowered to his desktop. His writing was so pure, unadorned yet poetic; achingly honest, skinning his soul and cutting right to the core of each who was listening. He had opened up that deepest part of himself, and permanently affected me.

I admire Ben for this more than anything else. He inspired me in ways I can’t explain. This is why I write–– I want to reveal my true self to those who might not understand, and thus better understand myself. While I don’t expect to permanently alter others’ lives, I hope someone will be touched by what I have to offer. I owe that to Ben for what he did for me.