As a child, I grew up in concert halls. My mother is an announcer for a classical music radio station, and therefore is a friend and colleague of nearly every local name in classic, classical, jazz, really any kind of music. Because of that, I grew to love the beauty of a symphony, the tone of a jazz piece, the heat of salsa. I met people who could sing with no voice, who by merely touching an instrument, could change it from a hollow block of wood or a twisted metal tube into a thing of unrivaled beauty. See, these men and women truly had passion, a passion for their art which allowed them to communicate the deepest reaches of their souls without once opening their mouths. I too wanted to sing. At the age of seven, I picked up a violin for the first time. I was no doubt enthusiastic about my newfound little voice. Whiny and toneless as it was, I cherished it. Over time, I grew in skill and found I had a reasonable amount of talent. Soon, I found myself in youth orchestras for quite a while, even ending up the concertmaster of the small string ensemble at my middle school. It was then, however that the light started to fade. When I drew my bow across the strings I heard notes, but my voice didn’t seem to be in any of them. My practice regimen grew abysmal, and my private lessons didn’t seem to go as far as they used to.

I had gone mute.

Luckily for me, I went to a small performing arts middle school, abounding with new opportunities for me to be heard. The school is known for its show choir, and like the majority of my class, I joined. I hoped that perhaps I could sing again, simply by singing. I still played the violin, but merely as an obligation. I now remembered the silvery, the glowing, passionate voices I had heard in those concert halls. Just like the people who could sing with no mouths, they had passion. I wanted to feel that too. I wanted to find a way to really move people; I wanted to make people feel what I felt. And with my voice gone, I was willing to try anything. In the end, I enjoyed singing, but I never really sang. The most passion I ever really felt singing was in the shower. It was three years singing and dancing, I never regretted it. I made friends, met quite a few fascinating people, and really got to experience the arts.

I never danced.

Just to clear that out of the way, my back is stiff, and my legs are long, I could never begin to comprehend the acrobatics of the physical arts. Though I never envied them, I admired those who could speak with their hands, shout with their bodies, these people could truly sing through motion, feel music in ways that no one else could. I was unfortunately inept at this feeling.

There are also those who speak through brushes and pens. The artists of the world can communicate every feeling inside them merely through color and lines. Even in the most abstract of images shout with the deepest of emotion. I enjoyed my art class, certainly, but with my shaking hands and bad eye for shading, I could never do any better than cityscapes. It was, however in my art class that I was first struck by a wonderful inspiration.

A story. I began writing a Tolkien-esque work, abounding in adventure and magic. It was then I was filled with a long-lost sensation. My voice was back. Over the following days I wrote furiously, every word of every story that rattled around in my head was finally coming out onto paper. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. Soon enough, my short novel was complete. Of course, no voice comes out singing. It was a simple, quiet, and in simple terms: bad. Soon; however, I had truly found myself again. In my words I could bring characters to life, tell stories, let every feeling and thought in my mind become a new tale. I truly found passion again; an art which does not discriminate against shaky hands or a bad back. I could write far better than I could draw of play the violin.

Today, my skill is still young, and my voice has not fully bloomed. Yet, every day I feel this more strongly, this will to tell stories, to truly awaken the readers’ senses grows more in me. Though it may not be my future, or my livelihood, but I do fully know that this is my voice.