It’s easy to feel inferior. To feel like you have nothing to give. There is an entire planet filled with people so talented and you can’t help but feel like a tiny insignificant smudge of last night’s dinner, left behind on the kitchen counter.

Often I find myself wishing my words could come together as eloquently as those of someone I believe to be more talented than I. The people who can convey complex emotions, ideas and experiences to others flawlessly with nothing but 26 symbols at their disposal. The pieces of writing that come wrapped up neatly with a magnificent red ribbon that slides open smoothly as you tug upon the end.

When my pen hits a piece of paper, it splats, crashes and stings like a wound that hasn’t quite healed yet. It has taken a long time for me to come to the realization that I don’t want my writing to sound smooth or elegant, because those words would never be used to describe me. When I write, it feels like me. It feels like the bottoms of my feet, ripped, raw and weathered from walking the trail behind my house when I leave my shoes behind. It feels like having breakfast in bed with my mom and dad, dog and cat. It feels like the moment we all dash out of the room in horror after dad lets one rip. The words I put on paper feel like running my fingers through my matted, messy hair. It feels like hitting my head on the corner of a desk in the middle of a passionate make out session. My writing is just as much a part of me as my large Danish nose, flecked with freckles, or the varicose veins etched like spider webs on the outside of my thighs.

Perfect just the way it is.

– Ali (Writing Retreat 2012 student)