I can hardly remember the exact moment I realized I was able to write. When I look back on it, I would say I was about three or four years old. Late at night, I remember asking my mother if the collection of shapes I drew on paper with my green crayon formed a word. My mom held her hand over mine and traced out "T-I-M" before telling me that's how my name is spelled. I remembered the shape of my hand in hers as I held the crayon. It was a peculiar angle that I still write with now, as I find it most comfortable. I remember spending days on end mastering how to spell my first name. Some weeks later, I began working on my last name. By my fifth birthday, I was able to identify myself with a piece of paper and writing utensil small enough that I could firmly grip it in my hands.

Everything began to blend together from that point on. I was always told my printing penmanship was astounding, but the way I held my pencil was peculiar. I spent much of kindergarten mastering the remaining shapes to come forward as letters, and eventually teaming those letters up to make words. First grade was very much dedicated to proving to the teacher that I could form sentences longer than seven words. Second grade was learning about paragraphs and understanding that not every idea needs to fit itself into one sentence. Third grade was a true challenge.

I remember walking into third grade, looking at the board for the familiar, sharp lines that created letters. Instead, I was treated to one continuous line of connected bubbles and circles that would later be explained to me as cursive writing. Each day was a regression to kindergarten; worksheets of one or two letters, lines spaced out to trace these letters, and then trying them alone, in hopes that the mess I was about to make on the page would become a word at the end of the day.

I mastered cursive at a slower rate than my classmates. It was daunting to be told I wrote quickly and had beautiful handwriting one year, then to have the title stripped from you like a prize fighter who lost his belt over a technical error. I practiced tirelessly to master what felt like a new language. By the end of third grade year, I spent so much time trying to master cursive that I failed to notice I had learned the five-paragraph structure and how to truly write.

I spent the remainder of my formative writing years learning about proper grammar, verb usage, and things of that nature. It wasn't until middle school and high school that I learned it was not enough to just be able to write; I needed to have a voice. Waves of research papers, opinion pieces, written and oral presentations filled up the roster of assignments. Each assignment I wrote consisted of the same notes: "Who is your audience, how does this effect that, why should we care." The last note was particularly hard, especially as most people, myself included, took it as an offensive challenge, almost as if the question wasn't "why does this matter to your audience" but it was instead "this is garbage and why should I care about garbage?" I am a frequent jumper when it comes to conclusions.

Eventually, I learned to get out of my own way when writing, and I feel that was the most important of the writing process. Even when telling personal stories, it is important to let the writing tell the story, instead of insisting and picking at the story until it doesn't resemble what it's supposed to be any longer. Writing involves letting your work stand independent of you, the way a parent lets his or her child take steps on their own. Eventually that baby is going to get up and walk on his or her own and it is important that as a writer, you understand your work will eventually do the same.