Rough Draft: English Essay

Writing is different for everyone. For some, it’s an expression of self, a lens through which to show others the world as you see it. For others, it is a droll, painful task, best to be avoided at all costs. But no matter the fashion through which you see writing, the process through which your writing matures, grows and improves can be unpredictable, and more often then not, harsh. Writing for me began at age eight, quietly sitting in the oversized chair in my family’s living room, flooded with the dim, filtered light of a overcast day. Slowly I henpecked my way through a sentence, then a paragraph, then a chapter. From that moment on, writing was in my blood. The deepest particle of my self-expression, I wrote constantly from the moment on, the growing skill spilling over into other sections of my life as it slowly and tenderly improved, fleshing out as my mind—and the word I saw—grew. It was not, however, till five years later that my writing was truly tested, and through that testing, jumpstarted into genuine maturity. This process took place in a world some writers never know or touch—the world of online writing. Surprisingly—or perhaps not—the feature of this environment that truly effected me was not the friendship, support and compliments I received there, but the brutally of the criticism that was the very backbone of the domain. To this day, I consider the things I learned there to be some of the most important and significant of my entire writing career.
            I was introduced to the website by a close friend. She talked often and animatedly about not only the website and the content she herself posted there, but also about the Veritas, an exclusive group of writers she looked up to, and had been inducted into as a novice, or as the website lingo went, a newbie. I was eventually convinced to join the site, and with her as a buffer, was accepted into the world of the Veritas. It was through this exclusive group, and the forum they hosted, that my writing first began its slow, painful climb to high reaches.  The online writing world is viscous, cruel and exceptionally creative in the expression of both characteristics. The Veritas, were no exception. Their name meaning truth, they had charged themselves with the care and up-keeping of the website, holy battalion in the face of literary pollution and dedicated slayers of clichés and Mary Sue's. Their weapon of choice was a process fondly known as flaming, the less-popular but still fairly common backup CC--or Constructive Criticism. Flaming is a fairly simple action to explain. It was reserved for posts (stories or poetry, primarily) completely and utterly lacking in any redeeming qualities, generally those rife with clichés and overrun with epidemic proportions of lacking grammatical skill. The action itself was simple; destruction. A critic so cutting, graphic and cruel the author of the piece in question would be incapacitated and crushed, and hopefully, sufficiently encourage to never, ever write again. In composition, a flame had a wide range of possibilities. Some were short and concise, others far reaching, extensive and graphic. Among the Veritas community, your general standing on the forum and the respect you garnered by fellow members was based on two things; writing skill and your ability to flame. Those with a creative and original talent for flaming quickly scaled the ladders of standing and respect in the community, held in high esteem and often complimented and discussed by fellow members. Posting lists of targeted 'flammable' stories on the forum and encouraging fellows to add their own flame to the growing inferno was by no means uncommon.
            As a young writer myself, my introduction to this kind of highly critical and volatile environment was both intriguing and terrifying.  I became obsessed with the condition of my own spelling and grammar, spell-checking everything I posted twice and rereading everything for grammatical errors, terrified that the people that I looked up to and respected would turn their considerable violence on me if I showed even a hint of weakness. This obsessive condition, while perhaps not the best way to learn, quickly and efficiently shaped me up. My double-checking became tedious, so I forced myself to memorize and execute the grammar skills I was obsessively checking for. First, the proper use of your, you’re, they’re, their, then the proper use (and length) of an ellipse, a learning occurrence that was hard and humiliating both… Eventually, the proper use of all of these grammatical became second nature. Next came spelling. As someone who reads as and addiction rather then for simple recreationally, I have a large vocabulary. My time on the forum was no different, with one main difference. Spelling has never truly come naturally to me. I know a million words and a billion nuanced definitions, but the spelling of those words was often confusing and ungraspable for me. Learning these skills was much more difficult then the grammar, but I managed. I used the sounded out words and used those phonic versions to memorize spelling, often coming up with cheesy rhymes that helped me remember how the word was spelled rather then how it sounded. Eventually, I was polished and shiny, inculpable to even the most vicious and nit-picking of the Veritas. But in that online world, I was by no measure safe. Not by a long shot…
            The first time I got flamed is one I will never forget. It not only shaped my writing, but shaped my attitude for the future To say I myself never expected to get flamed is an understatement. It blindsided me in the most profound way. The obsessive skills I had learned from my time on the forum were just as important in the creative writing that I posted. Grammar and spelling were spotless, and I had close friends read over my work before I even considered posting. So, when I say that the things I had up on the website, were, to me at the least, irreproachable, perhaps you understand my meaning. The specific story in question was one of pride for me. I’d worked on it for a couple weeks, carefully drafting and shaping it. It was no secret that I was at least three years junior to many of my fellow Veritas, a tense fact that affected my writing profoundly. I feared my ideas would be considered immature, my vocabulary lacking in comparison to older readers. I felt as if I had been pegged into a category of inconsequence from the moment my age was slipped out while chatting on the forum one evening. To remedy this, I created stories original, daring, and graphic. Where many of my fellow writers wrote humor or romance, I created chilling tales of unfortunate events, never fearing to stint on blood and gore, but balancing my creation with intriguing characters and moments of black comedy I’m surprised I possessed at the tender age of 13. This specific piece was no exception. It was violent, scary, and distinctly tragic. I was so proud that I’d made the perfect move to break the mold of ‘immature,’ glowing with the flow of praise that came in from my Verita friends. I checked the comments daily looking for more praise, more boosts to my burgeoning writer’s ego.  So when my eyes landed on the flame, sitting dark and hot in the midst of the rosy praise that occupied the majority of my page, it was like a kick in the gut. I remember feeling sick and embarrassed, my former pride seeming a farce in the face of some stranger’s words. The flame wasn’t from a fellow Verita, but to me that fact was negligible. It hurt. Up to that point, the only people who had ever read my writing were my family and my friends. And yes, I counted the Veritas as my friends. Perhaps not at first, no, but eventually it became that way. I’d come home from school and spend hours on the forum. The people there were ones I would probably never meet face-to-face, but I knew them nonetheless. We talked about everything, safe and comfortable behind the cover of our pennames and avatars. It was a kind of freedom you’d be hard pressed to find with someone you’d have to look in the eye day to day or otherwise. The anonymity was part of what made it so strong. We talked about troubles in school and with family, friendships and heartbreaks, fears and dreams. To this day, I have never encountered a more open environment. So while at the time I still dreaded the disdain of my fellows, looking back I understand I wouldn’t have gotten any. They’d call me on it if I made a mistake—and occasionally they had to—but they’d do it kindly. Because of this, I’d been somewhat babied. The cruel reality of being a writer is, no matter how good you get, someone will hate what you write. I was as of yet unaware of such a reality. My writers skin was fragile and tender, my ego bloated and my mind devoid of any possibility that anyone would even think to insult me.  My writing was good. I knew that to the depths of my soul, hadn’t even an inkling of doubt. Because of this, I was unable to react properly or maturely to the insult. I couldn’t take it in stride. I couldn’t separate on insult to my writing from an insult to myself.  It felt so personal, like a bullet aimed on my skull, like an admonishment against my very existence. I had no idea how to handle it. My first instinct was to delete the entire story, I was so crushed that the compliments of the people I actually respected seemed inconsequential. That quick, I was convinced I’d created a horrific literary disaster.
            So how did this affect me in the long run?  At the time, I could hardly see past my humiliation, but looking back  I realize that the flame was one of the most important things that ever happened the me as a writer. See, as the pain and embarrassment faded, as I came to realize that my writing as a whole didn’t suck, and perhaps more importantly, that who I was and what my writing  was, however connected the two felt to me, would appear as different entities to others. So an insult to my writing wasn’t an attack on me, despite how it felt at the time.  Perhaps most importantly, the event gave me a backbone. It strengthened me to the point that I could understand and be confident in the reality of  what my writing was—and is—and still take the insults of another and instead of letting it crush my confidence, let it improve my writing. Looking back at the flame, I see that there was something constructive hidden in the brutal words. I understand the reason why this anonymous stranger so violently disliked my writing. It was thick with purple prose, details that dragged. For an older writer, it would have been a cringe-worth creation. For a thirteen year old girl, it was a masterpiece. I know for a fact that very few people have the kind of refined writing skills and imagination that I did at that age. But I was still just a kid, my writing a sapling rather then a cedar. Today I have the thick skin any good writer knows to build. I can protect myself and my all-important writer’s confidence. I can take advice without getting defensive or hurt. I can understand that my writing won’t reach everyone. I know that some people will despise the words that still feel so personal and intrgral to me. All of these thing are because once upon a time, in a dark corner of the internet, the girl I was had her confidence crushed. Though I know I’ll never meet them, I secretly thank that witty, mean stranger for their harsh words, because without them, I wouldn’t be the writer I am today.
            All in all, my time on the website and the Veritas forum was one of the most difficult, most fun, and most constructive experiences I’ve ever had in my writing career. I was able to connect with other writers, become part of a exclusive society, and improve one of the most basic things every writer needs—good grammar. I learned how to avoid clichés and the hated Mary Sue. I learned to take an insult. I learned that an insult doesn’t make a compliment untrue, but that it can still contain constructive information. I got a thicker skin, and everyday, I’m thankful for that.