Love, Nix

the creative writing students

hastily written notes, ideas scribbled down in the middle of the night

developing intricate characters and worlds

the sound of a typewriter, the click of computer keys, or the scratch of pen against paper

a love for words

pushing yourself to create writing that people will see themselves reflected in

carrying a notebook with you to jot down ideas

sharing feedback with your writing group

the wafer-thin pages of a dictionary

reading to learn, picking apart character development and plot twists for techniques that can better your own craft

staying up late to finish drafting a chapter

your favorite sweater draped over your shoulders

the rush of excitement as you begin a new project

rereading your old pieces, realizing how far you’ve come

a never-ending list of book recommendations

wanting to portray a scene exactly how it looks in your head

nurturing your imagination

long afternoons in a coffee shop, typing as the buzz of conversation surrounds you

leaving pieces of yourself in all your characters

the glow of a candle, flickering in a slight draft

a playlist of songs that remind you of your characters

working feverishly, your thoughts moving faster than your fingers can type

finding inspiration in events from your own life

Because you write better than you talk, and you write better than you breathe. Because one day you wake up with an itch in your hand only writing can fix. Because writing makes you put out things, and so does typing. Different things come out of different ways you write, but at the end of the day, you sleep better when you write.

You write for your passion, and you write for your dreams. If I cannot be all the things I ever want to be, I will be the writer I deserve to be. I will write until my hands fall off, and then maybe I'll learn to write with my other limbs. I am made to write, as is writing discovered for me. Maybe I won't shine amongst the highest stars who wrote, but I will shine in a distant world that will be found after my time. I will be the distant star to a beautiful world, shining endlessly and dying, and only recognized after my death for the light it brought them all.

Maybe I'm not all light, maybe I'm all night. But I will write nevertheless, cause if not me, then who.

“I am a dreamer. I know so little of real life that I just can’t help re-living such moments as these in my dreams, for such moments are something I have very rarely experienced. I am going to dream about you the whole night, the whole week, the whole year.”

𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝟽, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟸 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟶-𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟹