School writing has traditionally come easily to me. Quickly my love for putting pencil to page was channeled into a talent for argumentative writing. As I grew, my essays became more rigid, formal and sleek. I spoke in the passive voice. “We” analyzed everything, not “I”. I don’t think this was bad writing exactly, but rather the clean, pruned version of my wild, extravagant thoughts. I was always ranked advanced proficient on standardized tests. I received good grades on my writing through middle school and made a seamless transition to high-school. My first high-school history essay got the highest grade in my class.

I was not satisfied with this. My ego spiraled out of control. Either I was set to produce the next great literary classic at any moment, or I was a vain, selfish idealist who would never pen anything of any value to anyone. I was not willing to put up with the awkward phase Ira Glass describes where my taste exceeds my skills.

Writing transcended fun, transcended work, transcended a calling – writing was agony.