You see that my writing experiences were mostly driven by impulses. Writing was a series of intense short sprints instead of a marathon. While it provided a healing mechanism towards grief, I drifted back to my confused, lost, and numb state in grief outside of writing. I was still lost in the midst of those existentialist questions. Negation about my depression from my friends only added burden to speed up the healing process. The demanding professionalism in my major prompted my insecurity. “Do I really need to be here? Am I not good enough and that’s why I feel suffocated in this environment? What if I am not meant to be one of these kids?”, my insecurity questioned in circles without a landing.

When we were asked to write about why we write in my Minor in Writing introductory course, I thought, “Great. Another question that I will never have an answer too”. Well…truth is I still don’t think I have a clear and simple answer to that question anyway. However, in hindsight, the process of reflection about my writing experiences was more important than the final product itself. The prompt consisted of multiple components that could be summarized into “making a case about why you write”. It forced me to look into how I encountered and conceptualized languages in first place, moments when I felt deprived without writing, and who I was personality and character wise. At one point, I was so determined to tackle this question that I created a giant mind map of all the important moments in my life, hoping to find some explanations in a series of events. That was my “scientific method”.  No, life does not work they way but there was something noteworthy amidst the frustration involved – I began to understand myself better as a person by being brutally honest with my strengths and weaknesses, my character and my flaws, and everything in between. I also attempted to define myself as a writer, not merely an amateur writer. The Why I Write essay was not only a challenge of avoiding the boiler plates in self-identification, but also a challenge to know crystal clear about who I am.

One of my favorite authors, Haruki Marakami, once described writing as a marathon. As I attempted to engage in writing like a marathon, challenging myself to complete multiple drafts instead of the standard required number, I realized how unsustainable my impulses were. Grief and Depression were two little figures constantly threatening you. When Grief said, “Okay. I’m taking a break”, depression filled in, “Go ahead. I’ll deal with her”. Then, Depression kicked in, stood right at your ear, and started playing the self-pity and loneliness cards. “You will be forever doomed in this state. You will never see the light at the end of the tunnel. You will never be able to look at the world with equal amount of enthusiasm and hope like before.”, he annoyingly whispered. After a while, Grief came back, rolled his sleeves up, took a sip of water, and yelled into your other ear, “Hey. Do you hear me? Who are you to be angry or sad about your friend’s death? He betrays you by dying. Don’t you remember those promises? Volunteering? Camping and stargazing? Music jamming? You shouldn’t have trusted him”. At this point, the impatient Depression always stole the thunder. “Right. And you did trusted him and you ask for all of these. This is only going to last longer, not shorter, because you cannot change the past…”, he slowly and empathetically narrated his train of thought. Grief and Depression were the dream team to crush people’s self-worth and confidence down. During this time, it’s ever more important to find a shelter where you could comfortably be yourself. But as a third-culture kid growing up in Hong Kong and the United States, I was never able to figure out exactly where I would call home. In fact, Hong Kong was such an ever-changing city that it was difficult for me to describe it. I faced this question head-on in my Creative Nonfiction course.

A successful portrait, according to my instructor, conveys an essence of the city while developing a strong driving question with personal connection. Instead, I caught myself narrating stories after stories about Hong Kong, forgetting that the subject of portrait deserves its own space, distance, traits, and characterization. Therefore, I began experimenting two storylines in the portrait – one about the Hong Kong as a city and another about my internal conflict with identifying where my home is. In the end, I posed a possible relationship about places and the upbringing we have, “I guess emotion, memories, and places are intricately tied together and are indispensable. Everyone in some way connects with the place their family lives in unlike any other places”. The two storylines allowed me to not only transcend my moving experiences, but also connected emotionally with my audience. At the final draft, I thought to myself, “Well. If I could claim that my home is Hong Kong, I guess I could also claim that I am a writer”, and so, I settled with this thought.

A side note: Having met Grief and Depression, they are simply two bullies - they gain their power only because they successfully persuade you that time is in their favor.