Ciarra-Lynne Parinas is a junior at Kamehameha Schools Hawaii. Her personal essay was a winner in the BYU high school writing contest.

The pen is mightier than the sword. At one point in time, I wouldn’t have understood this. I would have looked at that pen and laughed because a simple writing utensil could never exceed the brute force of a steel blade. That, however, was before I indulged in creative writing, spilling ink against blank sheets of binder papers in a hurried attempt to find myself. That was before I had the urge to express my ideals.

There are times, however, when spoken words aren’t obtainable. Life sporadically throws in moments where words won’t always float from the mind to the mouth in a gaceful manner. That moment, for me, was when my grandmother died.

I was a child who didn’t understand the concept of death. I knew there was a heaven that allowed people to rest because they completed their life, however, I didn’t realize the price they paid was that completed life. I didn’t understand why my grandmother didn’t come home at night to wish me a good morning. When I asked questions, no one answered me. My father gave me a pained look, and my grandfather stayed in his room. I was left in the dark, with no one to talk to, and that is when my first short story arose.

The plot circled around a girl and her grandmother, and one day the little girl got separated from her grandmother. She was lost, and no one helped her find where her grandmother was. In retrospect, this might seem like a simple narrative written by a child, however it was the only time I could say what I was feeling. I was depressed because I didn’t understand my grandmother would never return. I was infuriated that no one would tell me what was happening, what it all meant. I was lonely because the only person I could talk to, the only person who helped my verbal words flow fluently, was long gone, and I didn’t know how to function without her. So, I used my words to envelop myself in a world of comfort that I could control.

That was the first spark to alight the fires of my curiosity for writing. As my life unfurled before me, I felt more inclined to stay to myself and express my sentiments in a notebook. Life became an unforeseeable creature that kept spitting things at me. Life was muddled and confusing, and the blanket of words I used to shroud myself ibecame a shield to cower behind from realities of the world.

All of these feelings towards writing in my personal life occurred simultaneously with the developing fondness I had for writing as a student. Because I began writing more and more in my free time, writing in school becane a pleasant surprise rather than some punitive trial. It was daunting to know that my words, essentially my thoughts, would ultimately be judged by a set of erudite eyes of teachers, however, it was satisfying to see the encouraging words scrawled in red ink at the upper corners of my paper. Why would this matter? How does a teacher affect a student’s feelings about her work?

When I got a good grade on paper, it wasn’t just the script that was getting a good grade; it was my thoughts. The feelings I used to emphasize the concepts of my papers were commended, and I felt comfortable knowing that people understood me, pushing me to believe I wouldn’t need a shield of linguistics to hide behind. Life, however, enjoys throwing in some fast curveballs.

In the sixth grade, we received a poetry assignment; the instructions called for one free-verse poem, longer than twenty lines, that focused on a time in my life that I found beautiful. I wrote about a Friday night when I sat with my grandmother on the balcony, watching fireworks blast above the cityscape of Honolulu. When I turned this assignment in, I was confident in the picture I lyrically painted and the love I glazed each word with. This confidence turned to uncertainty when my sixth grade English teacher told me this poem was stupid. She told me a student with my capabilities shouldn’t be writing as messily as that poem. She excused me from her desk, and I was crushed. The words I plucked from the tightly wound heart strings in my chest, the words I carefully splayed across a sheet of paper, the words I judged as worthy personifications of the thoughts in my head were deemed stupid.

I worked harder, honing my skills with a pen like a warrior meticulously sharpening his sword before combat. Writing became my ultimate battleground; it became a place where I would test my acquired knowledge, and progressing through the years of academic wonders has only increased the arsenal of my growing craft.

Now, when I pick up a pen, I’m on a magical quest to slay a personal monster that reeks of doubt and fear. With every flick of my wrist, my insecurities falter at the shocking development of my writing. I was once a lonely child with only a tattered composition book as a friend, who used her words as a blanket of support and comfort, and as I grew, so did that blanket. That blanket wrapped itself around me like a force field that hid me away from the world, painting me invisible with only my writings to give me counsel.

Now, however, I do not have the compulsion to hide behind text. I do not have the need to defend myself with narrative wordings. I face the world, or at least my English classes, in poise, for I am armed with the weapon I fell in love with along with an array of knowledge gathered from the years of review and a challenge I always keep in my heart. Every word of critique is a word that will benefit me and every little mark will make me a better writer. So with an open mind and ready dictionary, I am eager to take on any task. After all, a sword is only as strong as the one who wields it.