I’ve always been an observer. My parents tell me how when someone would approach me in my stroller to say hello, I would look at the person with wide eyes, almost like I was evaluating them. It was “so cute,” they say. When I got older it turned into, “Melony, stop staring” and now it’s, “Melony, are you okay?”

 

But I don’t stare, and “yes,” I tell people, “I’m okay.” What’s really happening behind the wide eyes and blank stares is just me, taking it all in, and trying to figure it all out. And that is where my love, rather, my need for writing came from. Some things in life simply require more than a quick glance. Rather, they must be turned round and round and analyzed from every viewpoint. When I come across these things, I turn to a piece of paper (or blank Word document) to let the overstuffed container of thoughts and questions pour out. After this, relief sets in.

 

I have turned my observations into writing ever since I was in elementary school. “Alright,” my teacher would say, “Now we will have some free time before math. Do any activity you want until cleanup time.” I then observed her take a deep breath and head for the giant cup of coffee on her desk. I observed a surge of excitement burst through the third grade classroom as my fellow students sprinted toward their favorite toys of choice—the wipe-off boards, computer games, and board games. As all of this was happening, I was calmly pulling my notebook out from the cubby in my desk and beginning to write a story. The noise of the tumbling block towers or fights about who got to the computer first faded to the background.

 

Once, during a free time, I wrote a piece called “ETC.” in which I noted every observation I could make as I scanned the classroom around me. My friends loved reading it, probably because I mentioned all of their names. Other times, I would work hard to create a story that I would be proud to share with my family when I got home. I used past observations in these writing pieces and embellished elements of my own life from home, with friends, or school. Writing was something that made me feel unique. I liked how I could come up with a story that no one had ever heard before, not even me, and all I had to do was sit down and pay attention to what was happening around me.

 

As I got older, the nature of my writing began to change. Instead of only writing down my observations of the people and places around me, I began paying more attention to my own thoughts and feelings. Instead of always looking outward, I was looking inward. And writing became a way to express those “inward” observations.

 

For example, during my sophomore year of high school, I had a dance teacher named Devin who everyone hated. He yelled at us, cursed at us, told us we were fat and needed to eat less. I felt exhausted, upset, and defeated after his classes most of the time. In the moment, I hated him. I hated that he made me feel so bad and I hated that he felt like it was acceptable to be so cruel. However, one night I decided to write about him, and in the process I figured out that Devin was showing me what tough love was all about.

 

As our instructor and mentor, Devin wanted us to be the best dancers we could possibly be. He believed in telling his students the sharp, uncensored truth. He was always pushing us to reach a higher level and never settle for less than our best. As I wrote, I realized that over the years Devin had inspired me to push myself harder in everything I do. He was actually my favorite teacher.

 

Every time I encounter a challenge or question about something that is going on in my life, I find that writing about it brings me a solution or an answer. Writing allows me to dig deeper into the things that catch my eye or linger in my mind. In elementary school, writing was a way to record what I observed. Now, I use it to find meaning in those observations. With writing, I can understand the world in a more emotional, complex way that brings life to the things that often seem so simple from the outside.