The Story About Liking Stories

Hey, You. No, not the other guy, You, the one reading this. I have a secret… (even though by now, it is probably not the best-kept secret). But, meh, I’ll tell you anyway.

I like to write. Ahhhh, yes. It feels good to say it on paper. Wait: you don’t believe me? Ohhhh, I know what you must be thinking, “Bollocks! I call bollocks! You, sir, are a teenager and a high school student at that. How can this be possible!?

I’ll tell you how, you nay-saying, hollow, Milk Dud: I can enjoy a good story. Thick plots full of exquisite pictures painted on cranial canvases, masters of expression creating concertos of emotion and language from the ephemeral whims and wishes made by flawed characters. My mind’s appetite finds these scenarios most delectable. I seek out such scenarios in literature so that I might temporarily escape into fantasy worlds and La-La lands.

Before I found my passion for stories, I still retained some attraction for writing. Well, to be honest, that’s not exactly true. I enjoyed the passive forms of writing and storytelling, reading and listening. My “La-La Land” fixes came from both my mother, who often told me tales of her life, and Rick Riordan, author of the Percy Jackson series. Together with my “La-La” dealers, I enjoyed story after story, year after year. I was content, counting on the fact tomorrow could only promise me more happiness. I was naive to think so. Because on July 30th, 2014, shortly after midnight, my life was changed forever. My mother passed away.

Now, before you get all teary-eyed on me, I remind you this isn’t that kind of story. Without my mother, I lacked any stories for escape fodder, so I decided to honor her memory and delve into writing myself.

Mind you, before this point, I despised most types of writing with the burning heat of a thousand  

suns. And so, to my earlier critics, I grant you half credit, (feel free to pat yourselves on the back). Essays drew most of my ire. Callow as I was, I saw no point in them. The additions of hand cramps, slow writing speed, and lousy handwriting certainly did not help my stance. I only had interest in exploring creative landscapes and horizons, leaving little energy left over to expend on argumentative papers and analytical reports.

Even so, I have come to realize that there is room for creativity in arguments and reports. Most obviously, you have to actually create the darn things first, (you may think I’m being sarcastic by saying that, but I actually had to feed myself such a line over and over again in order to get myself writing. Yes, I was that helpless). The second obvious thing I realized is I could keep my current writing style: just in the form of an essay. An argument must have ingenuity to be truly superb and an analysis must have depth in order for others to accept it. Eureka! I had found the answer!

Now, I need only to pass several tests in order to prove I can become a superb writer. My first test lies in front of me, Senior Year. Maybe, just maybe, after I break through, I can successfully perform in my dream job as a fiction writer. Maybe, I can provide the same escape from reality, which I was given, to another. And maybe, I can help others find their own entry into La-La Land.

My opinion of writing has changed over the years. Not too long ago I held the opinion that being a “talker” was one of the worst things you could be. I imagined every politician-like character as a weak, silver-tongued, snake who couldn’t make a living in the real world. A younger me thought every human being should aspire to become like warriors: noble, brave souls who knew what problems held them back. These dashing heroes would always combat such obstacles head-on with an arsenal of strengths.

As for now, I like to think I know better. Surely, one who can hold their own in conflict still commands my admiration, but a battle of words and of wits can be as much or even more of a crucible than a contest of strength. The occupation of a Bard can indeed be glamorous. After all, who actually tells the ballads of great warriors anyway?

– Jonas Micolucci, The Haverford School, Class of 2016

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