When I was 16 years old, I launched a funny, little blog consisting of my rumblings, grumblings and poor life choices. After two years and more than 100 posts, I deleted the blog - Etcetera - for fear of actual journalists coming across it.
Luckily Unluckily, I saved all the posts, making for great, yet embarrassing reading material for years to come. I recently revisited the old pieces, which made me realize how horrible a writer I used to be.
I firmly believe that great writing can’t be taught. Sure, teachers can show you how to put together sentences, tell you that the Oxford comma is fascist and that the only thing a semicolon ever did was prove you went to college.
But great writing is an entirely different type of monster. Great writing needs something more than mechanics and an argument. It needs a soul. For me, the struggle has always been finding that soul, that heartbeat, that little bit extra that makes your writing live and breathe like an actual human being.
I didn’t have it four years ago. But writing every day and reading great writing every day has brought me closer than I’ve ever been.
Four years later - looking at my old writing - I can see just how far I’ve come. And it makes me wonder where I’ll be four years from now.