by Gail Kismet

Created on: February 17, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

When I was a little girl, I was told that I was smart. "We don't have much money," my mother would say, "But we have brains." She has no idea how much that saying has stuck with me through the years. She has no idea that she's my main inspiration.

She was right, of course. I excelled in school and I was often my teachers' favorite. I was the one who got notes sent home detailing my good behavior, excellent social skills, and impressive display of my ability to learn at a quick pace. My mother's eyes were brimming with tears when she'd see my report cards and my awards. Her tears, more often than not, were tears of joy.

Somewhere along the line, though, my mother went from supportive to demanding and expectant. As I grew older I felt increasing pressure from her to do well. I needed an outlet for my emotions. I needed a safe haven away from my mother's judgement and cruelties of "constructive critisism." So, I began to write.

Because I was smart, I was always good at writing. I can remember, as early as third grade, my teachers complimenting my composition and telling my I'd found my calling. When I was in Junior High I was chosen both years to go to Young Authors. I worked very hard to get chosen. I was never really "finished" with my works by the time I had to submit them, but I guess they were still good enough. In high school I entered several different essay contests and I even won a few.

My excellence in composition continued in college. During the first English class I had in college, my professor asked me to submit one of my works to the school newspaper. He thought I'd make a good journalist. I didn't live on campus, and I turned him down. Looking back, I should have taken him up on his offer.

Despite the awards I've won and the local recognition I've recieved (I'm still young, and I hope the trend continues), my favorite type of writing has always been the writing I do privately.

I recieved my first journal when I was 9 years old. I asked for it specifically. I started writing about normal little girl stuff. I wrote about the boys I had crushes on, and the girls I liked or disliked in my class. I'd write about my father, whom I saw on a very rare basis, and I'd also write about my mother. If it weren't for my journaling, I would have never found myself. That's an exageration. I would have found myself, but I would have spent a longer time searching.

I got in the habit of writing whenever I was mad. My best works can be found between the pages and pages of my journal entries from my teenage angst years. Because of this habit, the only form of therapy that does me any justice whatsoever is to be left alone with my journal and a pen that won't run out of ink anytime soon. It's almost like I can actually feel my words traveling from my brain, down my arms, out my fingertips, into the pen and then spilling onto the page in the form of blue or black ink.

Writing is everything to me. It's my way to prove that I have a brain. It's how I impress my mother. It's how I earn my money. It's how I spend my time. It's how I find strength when I need to heal. It's my life. Writing is life.

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