On Writing (Unrevised) Anka Chiorini, '23 As a writer, I am proud. I am proud of my prose-y verse And my poorly punctuated prose. I am proud of my plays, Typed in identical times new roman font. I am proud of my revisions, Cutting a sentence here, framing it better there. I am proud of my one liners, An occasional– ok, maybe not occasional– sarcastic joke thrown into a paragraph. I am even proud of my rambling writings That always turn into meditations on the concept of writing. As a writer, I hold my head up high. I walk through the halls smiling because I have a secret. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a writer. I sit in boring classes thinking about rephrasing this line or that line Or how to make the punchline in sentence three hit harder. I wear my writership as a badge of honor, One awarded to those who write. As a writer, I struggle to write. I sit in class staring at a blank document. I sit at home staring at a blank document. I take out a comma here or change this word, To replace actual writing in my day. I write pieces about how much I don’t like writing, Because I can’t think of anything else to write. I watch my cursor go in and out And reuse phrases and sentiments from pieces I’ve already written. As a writer, I worry. I worry that I can not sustain quality writing, That one day I will not be able to write anything worth reading. I worry that I won’t be able to write as an adult, That it will break my heart eventually. I worry that I have nothing to say, Nothing to put on paper. But as a writer, I am proud.