Love Letter To Literature

Love Letter to Literature by Angelina Nguyen, Del Norte High School, '25

Literature saved my life. From the youngest age I could even recall memories from, I had an overwhelming adoration for the English language. I was intoxicated with the way authors wove tapestries of glorious adventurers and benevolent gods, the way they spun gilded pictures of faraway lands. In my youth I was fostered within foreign walls under the guise of a home. Nights where sleep could not claim me were the clockless hours in which I delved into a world so unfamiliar to my own, and it was literature that nurtured my upbringing. Literature was what brought me a family when reality stole it away, gifted me company where I had none. Literature empowered me when I thought my voice had been pawned from my throat, stolen from me by the very crimes I wished to speak about. Literature was what saved me from myself, the tacit voice that beckoned to me at a time when my own two hands fiddled with mortality.

When I looked at myself in the mirror I was met with the rheumy eyes of a stranger, one whose face wore the weathering of a thousand lifetimes. In my heart I knew two truths about myself- that I was too young to be hurt and I was too hurt to be young. Although in my darkest hours, what kept me going were the authors and poets who immortalized their own truths in prose, ones who turned their tragedy into fantasy. The world of books unraveled a reality where fiction was achievable through the means of ambition. Memoirs and biographies, people who wrote testaments to the hardships they endeavored, they all ignited newfound hope within my heart. I was nothing but ashes but reading rekindled those withering embers.

Artwork by Yuri "Ticket" Lee, Del Norte High School, '26

Reading was what preserved me: it wrangled the clouds and reeled the sun into the sky. Reading sliced the waning crescents of the moon and cast the world into the onyx of the night. Reading kept me alive, it was the natural order of the world. Writing though, it was what set fire to the colors of the sky each morning in dazzling hues. Writing was what illuminated the stars and coaxed them into constellations. Writing was my reason to be alive, the beauty in life. With a pen I was an originator, and there are no limits to one who creates. I would be at the mercy of my own imagination, my limits bound by a place only further than the universe.

As I grew, I grew to worship words. I revered the way those clever letters would dance across the pages, poised with artistry. In my pursuit of being an artist I lost sight of what I truly was. To me, my body was made of stained glass. Fissures claimed my crystalline flesh, and it was as though with every movement another shard would yield. My works were mosaics, patchwork puzzles of the world cast through my eyes. Writing to me was not only my story though: throughout my life

I wrote to preserve the little girl whose voice had faltered in her darkest hours. My works were a mosaic of my dreams, my experiences, fragments of my own memories and the stories I’ve consumed throughout my life. Each line of prose was my desperate grasp to preserve my narrative, a story I had numbed from my memory and refused to write about for so long. The reason why I never wrote about my own struggles was because I was scared. I feared that if my pen did not compose a beautiful monody of my melancholies, if my memories were not melodies,

then I would have failed as a writer. Tragedy to me, was no use if it was not turned into beauty. With my writing I tore apart the stitches that bound my lips and spoke from the most vulnerable part of myself, something I had confused to be fragile. Vulnerability was not fragility though, and I soon learned that where my tongue was caught, my pen could set me free.

I truly love writing. It is my mission and purpose in life, to create and forge pieces that will move and remind others that they are not alone. There are so many stories in the world that need to be told, so many hardships people are facing, believing they are alone. As a writer I find myself obligated to speak on all the issues and struggles that need coverage and need voices. My passion to create a world where the little 10 year old girl within me would’ve felt safe begins with crafting it from my words. Words, the pinnacle of human communication. Words, what bring us together and tear us apart. Words are the greatest known power on the planet, a power that can alter lives with the flick of a wrist. Many nights I found myself dreaming of not waking up the next day, but so many mornings I would always find myself rising once again. Through my gilded curtains I’d watch the haze of sunrise claim the sky, and be reminded of the purpose of why I keep going, what embers flicker within the depths of my heart and what I truly want.

I want to become the sort of writer whose words have the power to save a life, the way literature saved mine.