by Asha Sierra
Every holiday season, the question of what I am grateful for is unavoidable, and someone is bound to ask it at every family gathering. As I have grown older, I have noticed that my answers look the same every year. I am grateful that I was blessed with a supportive mom, a brother who doubles as a best friend, and a dog who gets cuter every day. I know those three answers will always be a constant on my list of gratitude, but I ask myself why I do not add writing to the list, especially when it is one of the things that I am most grateful for, and something I do every day. I wanted to take time here to reflect on my growth as a writer. While I can proudly show off pieces I have written in recent years, looking back to where I used to be brings me the strongest sense of gratitude.
It started when I was thirteen. My seventh-grade class went down to the auditorium to watch the musical theatre program’s annual performance. I am not sure what was different that year, but instead of admiring the show as I usually did, I now wanted to be a part of it. So, when my teacher announced auditions for the school’s musical theatre program, I was ecstatic. I searched for the perfect monologue and a song that fit my voice. I practiced relentlessly so when auditions finally came, I was ready. That was until I was handed a completely new script at auditions that I was expected to learn within fifteen minutes. When it was my turn, I was stuttering over my lines, mispronouncing words I knew, and worst of all, I was whispering the whole time. For years, I had been the quietest in class, and that did not change during my performance—no matter how many times they let me start over.
The rejection hurt, but not as much as I thought it would. During the audition, I realized how much I hated an audience watching me. It took me a couple of weeks to realize the shift that year was not me grasping onto the actor’s performance. I was resonating with the author’s words instead. I had read so many gripping monologues for my audition, and a few even made me emotional. I began to admire the various authors’ abilities to be able to pull emotion from an audience. As I thought more about it, I did not just admire it, I wanted to do it too. And I was going to. The following summer, I got my nearly broken hand-me-down laptop out, and I got to work.
First came Colors, what I thought would be my debut novel. It was a coming-of-age story set in Pennsylvania with too many characters and a plotline held together by a piece of loose thread. At many points in writing, I could not even keep up with the storyline. But I kept writing and rewriting with the hope it would get better. By sixteen I had at least six different versions of the same story, each an improvement from the last. But I still hated them all for one reason or another.
I took a break from books and instead brainstormed short story ideas only to come up short every time. Until one day when I came across a photobooth picture of an interracial couple from the sixties. Immediately after, In Another Lifetime was born. Set in 1967, on the day interracial marriage was legalized, an engaged couple must ask if their love was built to last, or only meant for a different lifetime. This was the first piece I was brave enough to show someone else, and I handed the story over to my mom. She was happy to read it. Yet, I was on bated breath as I fully expected her to hate it. But she came back with a glowing review and went on and on about how she loved it. She even shared the story with her friends who practically demanded for its continuation to see more of the couple.
Now, embarrassingly, I still have trouble finding the words for how much that moment meant to me. Not only was my story well-received, but it also made me feel like I had finally found my voice through writing. No one was begging me to speak up; there was no stuttering or mispronunciations. I had found my voice, and I was being heard. The feeling was indescribable, but in its simplest form, it was a confirmation that I was meant to write.
So, I kept at it. I had stories of taking back power, like White Picket Fence, where a girl finally decides to fight back against her abusive father. There was sibling rivalry in Team, with two sisters ending up on opposite sides of a volleyball net. I even had a brief thriller phase with One by One, a story that was so descriptive, it freaked my mother out.
Through my writing, I feel as though I have visited places I have never been. During research for Team, I was constantly checking the weather for Wisconsin, all to make sure my descriptions matched the real-life conditions. Now, if given a calendar date, I would have a good chance of guessing the temperature there. I have created more characters than I can count, built worlds meant for whole storybooks, and learned I am so much more capable than I ever could have imagined. Today, I could not be more thankful for my seventh-grade self for always returning to her nearly broken laptop to finish that one last scene. She helped me realize it is not about writing something perfect; it is about writing anything at all.
The importance of words often goes overlooked because of their unavoidable presence in everyday life. Their tendency to be undervalued is why I view writing as so indispensable. Writing is a physical reminder of all the meaning words can encompass and create. While I prioritize vocalizing how I feel all year round, during the holidays I take extra time to do so. I will text, compliment something meaningful, call out an “I love you” before leaving, and make sure it is heard.
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Asha Sierra (she/her) is a second year at Detroit Mercy, majoring in English with a Creative Writing concentration. She has a passion for diverse storytelling and aims to provide the representation she never saw for herself.
Between the Pages 