The Story I Want to Tell

     Ever since I was in fifth grade, I have wanted to be an author. Writing has always been a deep passion of mine, and the thought of being able to do that for the rest of my life is...gosh, it's indescribable. Of course, because writing isn't really a feasible job, I'm going to school to become an editor, and I plan to write as more of a hobby than as an actual career.

    The problem is, I'm not sure what I want to write.

    For the longest time, I said that I wanted to write fiction. That's what I loved to read the most, so it would make sense that it would be what I'd be most comfortable writing. But various experiences over the years have led me to believe that maybe that's not what I really want to do, and that I just chose fiction because it was the most logical choice.

    The biggest thing that's made me question myself was taking a creative writing class this last semester. The poetry section was just as horrendous as I expected it to be--I hate writing poetry even more than reading it. I expected to find more joy and satisfaction in the fiction module than in the nonfiction module, but I was surprised to be proven wrong.

    I had a difficult time coming up with a fictional story for a variety of reasons. I was absolutely terrified to share this part of my creativity with anyone, which meant that I wanted to write something I wasn't super attached to so that I wouldn't feel too embarrassed about letting others read it. I didn't want to feel like I was cutting out my heart to let someone else inspect. But the problem with me is that I become attached to anything and everything I'm exposed to for more than a few minutes; and if I didn't become attached to it, I was absolutely bored with it or couldn't make it work.

    I eventually created a story that I could take some pride in but that I wasn't emotionally invested in. I turned it in and did everything with it I was supposed to, got 87 percent, and I haven't even looked at it since. Quite a lot of effort for nothing, eh?

    But that's why the contrast between the fiction and the nonfiction was so interesting. I wasn't necessarily thrilled about being required to tell my own story, but I wasn't dreading it either. I came up with a topic almost instantly, and I put real effort into writing it. Except that it didn't feel like effort at all. I just wrote what I remembered happening, the way I believe it happened, and how I felt about it. And when it was reviewed by my entire class, I took the suggestions to heart and went to great pains to make it as perfect as it could be. And that work paid off--I got 98 percent.

    It's through this experience that I've come to realize just how much writing real stories means to me. I mean, I have never willingly shared a piece of my creative writing with another human being, and yet here I am, writing my experiences and thoughts for the world to see. I have to be in just the right mood to come up with part of a story to type up, but I am always ready to write in my journal or pen a deep, emotional catharsis.

    This comes naturally to me. Writing in general comes naturally, but when it's just me talking about something real, it's like I don't have to focus on anything else. I'm not worried about who might read it and what they'll think of me for it; I'm too involved in the writing coming to life. And I always feel so satisfied with my work when I'm done. Always.

    Do I still want to write the next internationally best-selling YA novel? Of course. But I love telling real stories, whether they're my own or not. And if I could write my stories, my family's stories, my friends' stories, everyone's stories for the rest of my life, I would be perfectly content. I love diving into fictional worlds and living somewhere outside of this reality, but this reality has some really beautiful, really emotional, really profound bits scattered amidst the grey. And to be able to capture some of that beauty, that emotion, that profundity...that's what I love to do. I love sharing something that's totally unique to me and yet speaks to another individual. I love the connection that I feel to other human beings when I hear a real story. I want to share those stories with anyone who'll listen.

    I'm not quite sure how to do that yet, but hey...at least I'll always have this, right?

Farewell to a Home

    Long time, no see, huh?  I'm going to place the blame solely on you and not on the fact that I haven't posted anything in well over a year.  

    I'm sure you all remember when I first started college.  (If not, I have plenty of past posts about it that you can update yourself on if you so desire.)  I remember when I first started college.  I remember moving up to Rexburg and getting settled in apartment 703 with my best friend.  I cried when my family left, but then I got distracted by other things and was temporarily distracted from my emotions.

    When I used the apartment bathroom for the first time, I was discouraged by the unfamiliarity and I cried again.  Yep, going to the bathroom was too much for my weak heart.  In all seriousness, though, the weight of what I was doing came crashing down on me in that moment, and I realized that I was well and truly on my own now.  That was terribly frightening, and my fears were only exacerbated by the fact that my family wasn't there to help me.  Sure, I could call them or text them, but they weren't there.  I couldn't hug them.  I couldn't eat dinner with them or play a game with them.

    As the semester progressed, though, everything turned out just fine.  I haven't cried in the bathroom since.  I could go on and on about the wonders of BYU-Idaho and how happy it makes me to be here, and maybe one day I will tell you about that.  But I have a different focus for today.

    I have lived in this same apartment throughout my college career.  I'll be starting my senior year next semester.  I've grown quite fond of 703.  I've made friends in this place.  I've slept in two different rooms, and I've shared a room with two of my best friends in the world and one of the most fake people I've ever met in my life (but that's another story).  It has its issues, certainly--it's an old building, after all.  We get mold pretty easily.  Hamilton the microwave hates my guts.  The shower is the most temperamental thing I've ever had to work with.  The heater often either works too well or not at all.

    But despite all that, I love it here.  I love the view out of our living room window with its perfect sight of the Rexburg temple and the sunsets that so beautifully decorate the backdrop.  I love our wall of sticky notes decorated with quotes that range from inspirational to hysterical.  I love the framed photos of handsome movie characters we have on the window sill.  And above all else, I love the feeling of home that this apartment gives me.

    When COVID hit and I wasn't able to come back here for the spring semester, I was devastated.  In the face of a global pandemic, an earthquake, and temporarily losing my job, the thing that distressed me most was the realization that I wasn't coming back to Rexburg anytime soon.  Though I loved my time at home with my family, there were many days where I wanted nothing more than to be in 703.  When I returned after a nine-month absence, my heart felt whole again.

    I realize that this is the most cliché thing, but it's just a fact.  This place is my second home.

    So when we got the news that building 7 is being changed to a men's apartment and we'd have to move to building 5, my poor heart just about broke.  Fortunately, we got to finish out the semester here, but now we're reaching the end.  The boys on the window sill are packed away.  My room is the emptiest and yet the most cluttered it's ever been as I'm trying to pack everything up.  There are boxes everywhere, and there seems to be a melancholy mood settling over everything like a dust.

    As I took a walk earlier today in the rain, I realized just how little attention I've paid to the steps I take each and every day.  I've become so accustomed to these paths--how I cross the parking lot to get to the crosswalk, the path I take to get the mail, the familiar path to the laundry room--and now they're all going to be jarringly shifted slightly north.

    Sure, we'll be closer to the crosswalk and to the mailbox and to the lounge.  Sure, it's nice to have something new.  Sure, it's probably better for my own health and safety that I no longer live with Hamilton.  But it's still painful.

    For the past couple weeks, I've found myself pausing in the middle of mundane tasks, realizing the finality of everything.  I may use this same lemon-scented soap, but it won't be at this sink for much longer.  There will be a lamp in the new apartment, but not this lamp I've turned off and on countless times.  The extra chairs, the jokes about Madison the ghost, that confounded shower--all of it will be gone.  We have to start over again.  For some people, that's a thrilling thought, but I've never been one for change.  Starting from the beginning is a terrifying notion.

    But I'm optimistic.  I think back to my first couple days here.  I remember little 18-year-old Odessa disliking this place because it just wasn't home.  But before she knew it, she'd fallen in love with it.  If it happened once, why can't it happen again?

    Yes, it'll be hard to leave this place.  There are countless beautiful, hilarious, sad memories I'll be leaving behind, but it's just so I can make room for new ones.  I have all three of my wonderful, wonderful roommates coming along, and a good friend from back home will be joining us as well.  I don't feel so alone this time.

    So, do I want to cry thinking about how I'll be losing the best view in Rexburg?  Yes.  Yes, I do want to cry.  But seeing as I've already reached my maximum limit of two crying sessions this semester, I guess I'll have to settle for smiling instead.  At the very least, I'll try to grin.

    Or maybe I'll have a good cry.

    Regardless, there's a bit of excitement.  It's not as though I'm moving too far.  And at least I can rest assured that I'll always have that amazing campus with its beautiful gardens right across the way.  In fact, now they'll be a little bit closer.

    After Thursday, everything will be different.  Next time you hear from me, I'll be in 516.  Wish me luck, okay?

    "Remember that sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck."