When I was in third grade, my teacher asked everybody in my class what they wanted to be when they grow up. I’d be lying if I said I remember anybody else’s answer besides my own.
So, by default, I guess I can only give you my answer. I said I wanted to be a writer.
I had made this decision, that my dream was to be a writer, when my third grade class was handed beautiful, brand new composition journals. In them, we were allowed to write about anything.
I remember being so dazzled by these journals and the idea that the journal on my desk would one day be completely filled with my own handwriting and my own thoughts.
Only, that didn’t happen. It happened for the girl sitting to the right of me, who wrote about apples, and the boy sitting to the left of me, who wrote about dinosaurs, but it didn’t happen for me.
I didn’t write in my composition journal. I couldn’t. I mainly just erased in it. Everything that I dared to scrawl in my composition journal was only to be taken back a few moments later by my handy dandy eraser.
By the end of the third grade school year, I only had about five or so pages filled out, and the only reason I even allowed those pages to remain filled out by my writing was because my mom confiscated all my erasers.
Over the next few years of my life, I tried again and again (and again) to write. I bought the prettiest journals with the best paper quality. Always college ruled. Always very thick pages. And they always remained quite blank.
Now, at sixteen years old, if asked what I want to be when I grow up, my answer remains the same. I still want to be a writer. I want to be a writer so badly. So, so badly. But I still really don’t write.
Although, I fantasize that I do.
I fantasize about being that writer who never runs out of ideas. That writer who always carries around a journal and a pen and can just start writing wherever, whenever, and about anything and everything. That writer who is always inspired and is always inspiring others. That writer who can just always write.
I want to be that writer right now.
But writing is just still really hard for me, despite the fact that I consider it my true love. I blame it on this stupid tip of the tongue syndrome, that if I were to diagnose myself, I’d say I was born with. There hasn’t been any point in my life where writing came easy for me.
I have never known how to write. I have never been able to just do it. I might have these really long, well thought-out stories in my head, but I just can’t get any of it out and written down. Sometimes, I’ll stare at a blank piece of paper for hours and hours and end up with, well, a blank piece of paper.
Then on those rare occasions in which I am able to finally get something down on paper, I become overwhelmed with the compulsion to destroy. I see my own words and I get disgusted. I see flaws, errors, mistakes, and inadequacy, and I let my fingers reach to press delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.
For me, the tip of the tongue syndrome is my greatest fear, my toughest challenger, and my worst enemy. The tip of the tongue syndrome summarizes my struggle to come up with words and the reason why I terrorize my backspace button and my erasers with my constant usage of them.
So, this blog, named Tip of the Tongue Syndrome that for me pays respect to my worst enemy that won’t ever leave me alone, means change. I’m going to quit whining and just write. The Tip of the Tongue Syndrome means that even though I might not be the writer that I’ve always imagined myself to be, and even though writing doesn’t come naturally or easily for me, I can still do it. Even though I’m stuck with this tip of the tongue syndrome, I can and will write.
So let the struggle, the adventure, and the true love really begin.