I Finally Understand

Tonight, since it's clean, I decided to sit down in my room and watch a movie, so I put in my favorite: Kiki's Delivery Service. When I was younger, I remember seeing it come on the TV, so I sat my butt down, watched it, and fell in love with it. At that time, I didn't take into account what the reasoning was for my love of Kiki's story, but I felt a certain familiarity with who she was as a person compared to me. As I got older, I started to notice that intimate discussion she has with Ursula, and it goes like this:


Ursula: When I was your age, I'd already decided to become an artist. I loved to paint so much. I'd paint all day until I fell asleep right at my easel. And then one day, for some reason, I just couldn't paint anymore. I tried and tried, but nothing I did seemed any good. There were copies of paintings I'd seen somewhere before, and not very good copies either. I just felt like I'd lost my ability.

Kiki: That sounds like me.

Ursula: It's exactly the same. But then I found the answer. You see, I hadn't figured out what or why I wanted to paint. I had to discover my own style. When you fly, you rely on what's inside of you, don't you?

Kiki: Uh-huh. We fly with our spirit.

Ursula: Trusting your spirit! Yes! That's exactly what I'm talking about! That same spirit is what makes me paint, and what makes your friend bake. But we each need to find our own inspiration, Kiki. Sometimes it's not easy.

Kiki: I guess I never gave much thought to why I wanted to do this. I got so caught up in all the training and stuff. Maybe I have to find my own inspiration. But am I ever gonna find it? And is it worth all the trouble?

Ursula: Well, for example, there were quite a few times when I thought of painting something over that painting.

Kiki: But it ended up being so great!

Ursula: So I guess it's worth it.


Each time that particular scene came up, I would sit there and try to make sense of it. I could never understand what point Ursula was trying to make, and I think that it was because I was too young to recognize what having your own style meant. I was in middle school and didn't know who I was or why I took an interest in writing, but I know I did a lot of copying and mimicking so that I could get a handle on what kind of style I enjoyed writing in. Once I got into high school, I felt as though I could write pretty well, and I was always very fired up about writing poems and stories and lyrics to songs. I absolutely loved to write, and there were nights where I would fight sleep because I didn't ever want to stop. My mind would explode with dialogue and possible characters and discussions, and I was always in a rush to write everything down. Then, by the end of sophomore year, my fire began to dwindle, and it eventually went out. I stopped writing for a long time, and if I did happen to chug out anything new, I hated showing people what I had come up with. I began to question what I was going to do for a career, because for four years, writing was all that I knew. It was all that I had spent my time doing. Without it, I felt lost, but whenever I attempted it, my mind presented me with a blank slate. The ideas had stopped completely, and I didn't know what I was going to do.

I think that was when the discussion between Ursula and Kiki finally made sense to me. Like Ursula, I had no idea what or why I was writing. I had completely derailed from the art of words, and I felt like I wasn't going to ever come back to it. The ability was gone. There were also a lot of times where I'd look back at my writing and recognize my writing as works that I had mimicked, and they weren't good mimicked works either. Like Ursula said, they were "copies." And then, when I started my junior year of high school, I decided to take a creative writing class. I had waited for two years to sign up for it, and I guess part of me was still thirsty to regain my ability. That class completely turned me around, and I had a wonderful teacher who helped ignite that fire again. Her writing prompts began to push my tires out of the mud, and the day that I remember most clearly was when we had one of our critique Fridays that fell on 9/11. For those of you who don't know what critique Friday is, our teacher would ask us to write something and turn it in, and she would white out the name on the work and pass it out for the entire class to read. They would critique it and discuss it in class, and at the end of the critique, if the writer wanted to say that they wrote it and give us more info about the piece and what inspired it, they were allowed to do so. We were each required to turn in at least one critique over the semester, and I was terrified of the idea. Like I said, I felt like my ability was gone, so I was in that mind-set where I thought everything that I wrote was absolutely terrible.

Anyway, the Thursday before 9/11, I felt this urge to write a piece in memory of the occasion. So I went up to my teacher in the hallway that morning and asked her if I could write a piece for critique Friday, and she told me that she already had two pieces ready to go. But then she did something I didn't expect at all: she told me to go ahead and bring the piece to her the next morning so she could make copies.

I didn't understand why she decided to say okay to my critique. I'd like to think that she could tell this was a sudden urge: an all-or-nothing type deal. But nevertheless, she was giving me a chance to come up with something great, so I sat down at the computer that night and opened up anew Word document. But then I realized I had run into a problem. I had no idea what to write. That world of worry and panic opened up again as I struggled to think of something to type down, and I began scolding myself for thinking that I could do the critique Friday. However, I decided that if I was going to write anything, I was going to be honest. So I wrote down my experience of 9/11 in poem form, and the next day, I handed my teacher the free verse that I had written. Later on that day, when we all sat down for class, she told everyone that before we did the two critiques she had planned on doing, there was a poem about 9/11 that she wanted to pass out. I sat there, terrified, trying to look busy, thinking, Oh my God, they're reading it. I was so sure that they were going to take one look around the room and realize that it was me who wrote it, and I couldn't seem to relax. After about ten to fifteen minutes, people began raising their hands to talk, and I remember feeling as though a brick was sitting in my stomach. But something surprised me. My poem was actually causing a conversation. People were not being cruel about it or tearing it apart, but rather, boosting the piece up with memories of their own 9/11 experience. Sure, there was some constructive criticism here and there about what could possibly make the poem stronger, but overall, the piece inspired others to share what they had gone through and what they had felt on that day. My nervousness began to fade as I listened to everyone talk, and the conversation lasted until the end of the class period.

When the talking finally ceased, the teacher asked if the author wanted to say anything. Nervously, I raised my hand, and in a quiet voice, said, "I wrote it..." What happened next astounded me: the entire classroom broke out in applause. I remember sitting there in awe as I looked around the room, watching each student give me their proudest smile, and I thought to myself, They're clapping for me? For my poem? They liked it? My self-esteem shot up like a rocket as I realized I was no longer lost, and my fire was back.

I realized on September Eleventh, 2009 that the inspiration for my writing was because I wanted to touch the hearts of other people. I wanted it to start a conversation, make people think and reflect, and most of all, help people relate to things that were happening in the world. I wanted them to better understand themselves through things that they didn't really realize they were going through until they were actually reading about it, and maybe, just maybe, help them to feel not so lost and alone like me.

Now, when I watch Kiki's Delivery Service, I really pay attention to that scene between Kiki and Ursula. I listen to those words with the utmost concentration and keep them close to my heart, and each time I feel like it's impossible to carry on, I remember that Kiki tried, even when she felt like flying was hopeless. She tried with every ounce of belief that was left inside of her, and she took off into the sky, struggling at first, but succeeding in her endeavor.

Even as an adult, I go through periods where I feel lost and forget what my inspiration is. But Ursula reminds me that taking a break is healthy, and that sometimes, I just need to stop thinking about writing and focus on other things. Everyone goes through days where they feel like they've lost the ability to do what they love, and they'll go through days where they feel like what they've created is crap. It isn't going to be easy to find inspiration all the time. But I know that giving up is not the answer, and it is because I've refused to give up that I've come so far.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I almost turned my back. But it was that last small crumb of fire, that little bit of glowing ember, that said, "Not yet." I'm glad I listened to it, because it was worth it.