It seems I have not formerly introduced myself to you. I am well, on here I am Imperfect Writer I have carried this name for over 4 years now on various other sites and stories. I am not a outstanding artist, an official actress, a professional dancer or an established author of poems and books. I am Imperfect Writer.
When people ask me why do I call myself Imperfect Writer, it is not because I am trying to please your pity or empathy factor. But rather because I simply embrace the imperfections of my life, my creations and certainly my writing. I desire to create imperfections so that I may become more perfect, I desire trials so that I may have a story, I desire conflict so that I may know peace.
Without such imperfections, then one can never truly understand and even accomplish perfection. For one can only know a difference when there are sides. When I claimed myself as Imperfect Writer it was during a very rough and cruel time in my life. My family was going trials, my brother was missing, I had been abused in many ways, bullied, pushed around and even forgotten. Day in and day out I was told how useless I was, how ugly, untalented and pathetic I was and will be. My parent’s were so busy about their own lives that they was not able to see their daughter getting torn apart by the world, so busy trying to keep their relationship going, a roof above our heads, food in the fridge, and buying coffins for the many relatives that passed away within a span of a single week. So busy trying to keep up with everything else, that they couldn’t see me.
I was left, a shy and quiet girl to defend for myself. During my time of sorrow I found myself yearning for a way to escape, a relief, a light at the end of the tunnel. To which I found in on small movie rack at Pathmark, where a small black book was attached to a movie called “Freedom Writers”. This small black book, caught my interest so tiny that it fit within my palm, it was cheap and yet it seemed more valuable than life itself. Gathering all the coins and bills I can find, practically tearing my room apart. I brought it and ran home to watch the movie.
As I watched as the character’s lives upon the screen unfold, how terrible, rough, cruel, cold their lives were and how they was able to find peace, love, another world in a set of pages. How they wrote stories, songs, poems about how they felt. I couldn’t help but gaze at the small book in my hands. Realizing that somehow whether it was god, destiny or the universe my prayers was answered. I had received a beautiful book to help me live out my life. Though it was blank inside like myself, there was enough space for all the errors, all the tears, and the mistakes in the world to fill it.
This small book began my long journey to writing. Though I had written stories in the past they was nothing like the ones I wrote when I felt like giving up. Stories I wrote when I felt close insanity, of worlds that only someone as desperate as me would travel too. Poems so dark that even the darkest night was light in comparison to its thick blotted inked skin and yet stories so bright that they shined as if they was the children of the sun themselves.
It was during this time of writing that I slowly began to accept who I was, that I slowly began to become proud of who I was. That yes maybe I was quiet, maybe I was shy, clumsy, a little fat. But I was me, and the greatest part about being me is that if I didn’t like something, then I could change it. I, myself can be whoever I wanted me to be! And in the end that is what matters.
I was imperfect but doesn’t mean that I can’t change, I was incomplete but it doesn’t mean I can’t be whole, I am the beginning and I could be the end. All the matters was knowing me!