I’m often asked why I write in my free time.
“Why do you write?” my friends ask. My answer: largely because it’s just… fun. When I’m not doing homework, I’m nose-deep in modern tragedies (“Flowers for Algernon” or “The Perks of Being A Wallflower”), scouring the internet for “book recommendations if you liked ‘East of Eden,’” then shelving dozens of titles at a time only to read a select few later. Satisfied, I’ll look up from my books, inspired to recreate Amy Tan’s circular storytelling techniques or Jane Austen’s blending of third-person narration with first-person perspectives. So I open a blank Google Doc, and the words spill out. Like solving a massive jigsaw puzzle, I slowly piece my thoughts into a larger, complete whole. And each time, I’m hungry for it.
“Why do you write?” my parents ask. How horrified they must’ve been when I — of pure Asian descent — told them I loved English, or even thought about pursuing writing as a career. They’d say, “Honey, the chances of making it are 1 in 62,986.” Ouch. I’m certainly not the best. My in-class essays aren’t always innovative, and I can barely keep a consistent writing schedule.
But the truth is, my pages aren’t just a space for fun. When I was suffocated by my unending academic responsibilities, spiraling mental health and deafening loneliness, I wrote my sadness and hopelessness into these pages. Google Docs became a place where I could lock away memories to revisit or never look at again.
“Why do you write?” I ask myself. Artificial intelligence came and knocked everyone off their feet. All my friends and family say that writers would be the first to fall. Indeed, writing professionally will only get increasingly difficult. But that’s not why I write. I write because if I don’t, I’m scared that I’ll forget how to organize my thoughts into a stream — clear, flowing, unrestrained. Worried that my ambition, vivid memories and thoughts might be watered down. And then slowly, unconsciously, I’ll forget. Forget who I was and who I want to be.
Writing makes me feel connected and engaged with the world: articles on my classmates’ training for triathlons, my opinions about polarization or food safety, my obsession with books and more. I write these in the Epic, other local newspapers like The Mercury News and Midpeninsula Post, blogs (of my own and not), a publication I started and, occasionally, for local journals as a guest piece. My other works, mostly fiction short stories or my half-written novel, are unpublished, brewing in the depths of my Google Drive.
In the end, it doesn’t matter where or what I write. I must press these words hard against the white sheets like one does to preserve maple leaves. Because only then do I feel alive.
