"Write about what you know," said one of my college professors.
What was that supposed to mean? I admitted only to my 20-year-old self that I didn't know much at the time. So what can I write about? That advice was not much of a help for someone who wanted to be a writer.
It turns out I knew more than I thought, and so does anyone who has lived to age 20 and reflected on the comings and goings in their life: the mild trauma of a sudden argument between our parents, siblings, or friends; our helplessness in an unexpected confrontation with a police officer, principal, or little league coach, principal, or police officer; an embarrassing realization that we never had thought of the proper name of a tree, flower, or plant we see every day; our overwhelming sense of impotence when standing on a mountaintop and encountering what a tiny part of the universe we are; the inexplicable rapture that overcomes us when breathing the ocean air; the oneness with humanity that pervades our being when gazing at a crowded terminal, park, or stadium; the fear we felt of a neighborhood bully, or the shame when recalling we ourselves were bullying; the abject despair of losing a dying family member or of saying goodbye to a beloved friend who will leave us for a long while; our laser-like focus on the ceiling tiles to forget the dentist's drilling of our tooth.
We have plenty to write about because we know a lot.
What was that supposed to mean? I admitted only to my 20-year-old self that I didn't know much at the time. So what can I write about? That advice was not much of a help for someone who wanted to be a writer.
It turns out I knew more than I thought, and so does anyone who has lived to age 20 and reflected on the comings and goings in their life: the mild trauma of a sudden argument between our parents, siblings, or friends; our helplessness in an unexpected confrontation with a police officer, principal, or little league coach, principal, or police officer; an embarrassing realization that we never had thought of the proper name of a tree, flower, or plant we see every day; our overwhelming sense of impotence when standing on a mountaintop and encountering what a tiny part of the universe we are; the inexplicable rapture that overcomes us when breathing the ocean air; the oneness with humanity that pervades our being when gazing at a crowded terminal, park, or stadium; the fear we felt of a neighborhood bully, or the shame when recalling we ourselves were bullying; the abject despair of losing a dying family member or of saying goodbye to a beloved friend who will leave us for a long while; our laser-like focus on the ceiling tiles to forget the dentist's drilling of our tooth.
We have plenty to write about because we know a lot.
