As Computer Science student, I spend most of my time with writing equations and my eyes watering as I stare at lines of code.  Not in a single class for my major have I had to write a line of text, in English at least.

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​While the decision had been intentional, once I began college, I grieved the loss of a perilous romance with writing that had been kindled many years before. 

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My first serious writing project began when I was 11, though pardon me if I have decided not to include it here. My ambitions of a full fantasy series propelled me forward for two years, though I never arrived at any obvious destination. Writing became a grueling process, the always “should be doing” but never created anything very good, a story constantly expanding yet never progressing. And in rereading, I felt the constant dissatisfaction of my ideas laid out on paper not matching the vision I had had for so long in my head. It took a few years to finally make the conscious decision to give up. 

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But in the decisive shutting down of that project arose the hankering need to return. And when I did, I approached it with even more ambition than the last.  I had learned my lessons after all, and this time I had a chance. I now knew of the existence of outlines and planning and grammar, and it would destroy any opposition. But alas, these very tools would be my downfall. Twenty pages of planning documents later, and I had constructed a goal too nebulous to ever begin. 

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I was beginning to be faced with an uncomfortable question: do I even like writing at all, or just the idea of it?

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Really, I had no way of knowing because of the lack of writing I actually did. The internet had consumed my already minimal attention span, and I lacked the discipline to complete any large project. I eagerly sought accountability in a last ditch effort to preserve my dream of being a novelist, and applied for a summer writing program. I didn’t get in. 

But the year after, I tried again because at this point college was fast approaching, and if I didn’t get this novelist thing worked out I would have to think about actual careers. And I got in and met the most passionate writers of my life, an inspiration that quickly converted me and soon I was baptized into the ways of the “writing or death”. I actually wrote that down, multiple times. Death seemed to be a pretty good incentive to actually do the thing.  My next project got sort of far, but still ended up abandoned, more outlines than pages. 

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But my internet addiction followed my supposed passion, and I quickly found myself looking for some mystical advice that would click something in my brain and suddenly I would be able to switch tabs to my carefully labeled Google Drive folder and actually work. 

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Unfortunately, I succeeded. Brent Weeks, author of the book I had most recently read, has the most succinct blog, I really recommend checking it out.  His forecast for aspiring writers is brutal and  realistic but ends with the challenge: “Of course, if you just HAVE TO WRITE and you can’t be discouraged or dissuaded, then it’s simple: write.” 

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So I had to face the music: write now because it matters to you, or it doesn’t and you’re not a writer. Eventually, I did it. In the summer before my first year of college I wrote my first full novel draft with spite as my motivator. At this point, I had already found a much more realistic passion in software development, and I didn’t have any intention of actually sharing it, so it really was just spite.  Caught up in the business of college life, I failed at my next project. My programming classes interested me, and other things eventually did too, so I eventually lost the need to write. It wasn’t really writing or death anymore, it was writing or “an equally successful and fulfilling life, but with actual free time”.  So fine Mr. Brent Weeks, you were right. Maybe it is very easy for me to be discouraged or dissuaded from writing. 

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And yet…

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Absence really does inspire a comeback. And I have the confidence now, to know that I can complete things. And I have things I actually want to complete. Mr. Weeks also has a whole section about productivity, that he has ADD and he really just has to do what works to make things happen. If I had read that section before now I may have saved a lot of trouble. But coming back, I am prepared, confidence in one hand, ADD diagnosis in the other, and most importantly, held on awkwardly between my elbows, is actual life experience.  Now, I have knowledge of technology, exploration of my sexuality, grief, friends, the tribulations of academics and mental illness, and the knowledge of more writing genres than just a full length novel. My new campaign has just begun.