Exploration Project

Writing Like Roses

 

    Writing is a beautiful and diverse way of expression. From epithets to free verse poetry to novels and essays, the different types of writing are immeasurable. Every person, thing, and idea fit into the countless forms of writing, and every minute someone writes something new. Just as there are many different ways to write, there are a myriad of rose species.  In my 19 years on this earth, I have yet to see an ugly rose, or at least one that doesn’t have  distinctive beauty. Even the dead roses can be pressed or rolled into something else that is beautiful. Despite the many differences between writing and roses, I do believe that the overall structure of the two have significant parallels. 

    All flowers, including roses, start as a seed, sprouting into a sapling while simultaneously becoming rooted in the soil. They begin to develop leaves, eventually form a bud and then blossom into a flower. Roses, however, grow into a bush. The size of the bush varies depending on the species of rose, as does the prime season of growth, the location of the planting, and how heavily they are tended to by the gardener. 

One thing that sets roses apart from other flowers is their thorns. Thorns are naturally occurring and serve the purpose of protection from wildlife. These thorns have benefits, but sometimes make roses difficult to nurture and can turn people away from planting them in their gardens. The fear of a scratch from the thorn overtakes the beauty of the flower.

    At this point in this essay, you may be wondering what does a rose have to do with writing? Well, my personal experience with writing just happens to be exactly like a rose. It began when I was young, with a seed. A small seed my mother planted in me, nudging and encouraging me to write out my letters, then small phrases. 

Shortly after, I found myself in elementary school writing short stories for class assignments. My teachers would take my work, fix up all my misspelled words, insert commas into my astronomically long run-on sentences, and put in all the capital letters every place I forgot them. Even so, at the top of every assignment I turned in was a sticker and encouraging words to make me feel as though I had done good work. My teachers were nurturing my seed. 

    As I got into later grades, I still felt exceptionally gifted and my work was being praised. My vocabulary was growing alongside my ego and I felt as though I was the Shakespeare of my 5th grade English class. My seed began to sprout and for the first time, climbed above the soil. It was nice under the soil, like a forcefield around my feelings, protecting the words in my head as they made their way to the paper and onto my teacher’s desk. My sprout continued to grow, turning into a sapling, later developing leaves and even a few small buds. However, it is to be expected that with growth also comes struggle. 

     My first small thorn came along in middle school. One of my friends took one look at an essay I wrote and manipulated the entire thing so it hardly sounded like me anymore.  It wasn’t anything major, but it was one of my first ever negative experiences with writing. I felt shriveled. My little mind was so defeated, as if someone had stomped on my sapling and left it to lay there in the dirt. 

     In hindsight, I overreacted and was being dramatic. However, negative feedback is a hard thing for a 12 year old to handle. This little “thorn” in my writing was necessary for me to be successful none the least. Had this encounter not occurred, I probably would have made poor grades and have minimal understanding as to why. I managed to rebound, my little sapling bounced back with lots of watering and the care of compassionate people who wanted to see me succeed. 

     High school writing courses went along a lot like middle school for me. Some growth but also some struggle. My seed was becoming a premature rose bush, some flowers blooming from the buds, not yet the most beautiful ones, but there were petals of pink and red adding some life to a plant formerly filled with green leaves and brown branches. Each individual flower had thorns, but it was during these developmental stages where I learned that beautiful things often have sharp but necessary obstacles leading to them. 

    My writing in high school also began to develop some texture and color. I expanded to more than just the narratives and five paragraph essays I had always clung to in the past. This push out of my comfort zone paired with advice from others helped me to grow some of the most beautiful roses I have ever seen. This doesn’t mean it was all perfect; some of my flowers never did bloom, or they simply had so many thorns it was impossible to grab them without slicing your hand. All things aside, my rose bush was growing and at this point I had nearly enough flowers to form a small bouquet. 

    A few months ago, my little writing rose bush was transplanted to a whole new place. A new place that was nothing like the comfort of home and a lot of my petals fell off along the way. I was placed in a cold, melancholy setting where there was little to no growing to be done. Humanities 124 on the first floor of Rhoades Robinson. It was at this very place where my rose bush was deheaded for the very first time. It was the first time where my roses that had been tended to so carefully laid lifeless and shriveled on the floor. A full page of feedback ripped my writing apart piece by piece. With each negative comment came a pluck of a petal until all that was left to do was snip the stem with the clippers. I was devastated and had never felt like such an academic failure in my life. 

    So there I remained, a seemingly lifeless bush with nothing but sticks and thorns. Anxiously awaiting someone to tend to my plant and make something beautiful out of the petals that remained. 

     My writing journey will continue to push forward. I write every day, academically and socially. The ideas in my head will continue their way to the world from the work of my hands. Despite my rose bush having less flowers than I would like, it kept its roots. My bush, much like my writings, still has its firm foundation and it has overwhelming potential to grow.