In first grade, my teacher told us to bring an empty cereal box and a cardboard paper towel roll to class, because we would be doing some kind of crafting day. So when I got home that day, without a second thought, I dumped out all the honey nut cheerios into the trash can and shoved the box into my pink butterfly backpack. In the morning, my mom couldn’t find the Cheerios, and I told her I don’t know where they went. I ran out the door with my backpack flopping against the top of my legs and into our white suburban. My teacher told us that we would be making musical instruments with our cardboard items. My eyes got wide and excitement ran through my veins. And that is how a Cheerios box, a paper towel roll, some rubber bands, and some staples became my first guitar.

            My Aunt Gill has had two guitars sitting in the living room of her Carlsbad beach house for as long as I can remember. We would make the hour or so trip down to see her a few times a year, and as soon as we stepped through the door my eyes were on the guitar. I dragged my little index finger over each string and each one rang out in a distorted melody. The sound was a language that fascinated me, and one that I longed to know. It wasn’t until years later that I found out that my aunt told my mom that if I showed that much interest in an instrument at that age that it was something that she needed to take advantage of. So when I turned nine, my aunt gave me her old guitar. The wood of the neck was cracked and coming apart, but it was still a guitar, and now it was mine. I didn’t know a single chord for a whole year, but that didn’t stop me from strumming my heart out while I pressed my fingers down on random strings. I didn’t have a pick either, so I would use a piece of cardboard that I ripped off the corner of a cereal box. I’m not sure how, but I started writing songs without actually knowing how to play guitar. Of course they were all in the same key with a one-note melody that had little to no variation. But I loved it. It made me feel like I was actually creating something.

            When I turned ten, the neck of my guitar finally gave out and snapped in half breaking four out of the six strings. I cried, no actually I sobbed. The next day, my parents surprised me with a new Fender guitar for my birthday and told me that I had lessons starting the next week. That night, I fell asleep with my small arms hugging the giant piece of wood. Every Monday at four in the afternoon, I sat in our living room and learned how to play the guitar from a thirty-something year-old, rock n’ roll, Beatles-loving guy named Mark. For years, I learned the chords and strumming patterns of Taylor Swift songs as well as many rock songs that he thought were essential for every guitar player to know. Dead or Alive, Bon Jovi. Hey Jude, The Beatles. Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin. Not exactly my style, but it came in handy whenever my dad yelled for me to play something other than Taylor Swift. I spent hours every day practicing and singing in the comfort of my bedroom surrounded by my warm pink walls. I watched video after video of how Taylor played her guitar live in concert and try to mimic those exact movements. I credit her with being one of my guitar teachers along with Mark the rocker dude. My fingers have calloused and peeled repeatedly over the years, and I took immense pride in the thin scars on the fingertips of my left hand.

            In high school, I was gifted with the most beautiful red guitar that quickly became more than just an instrument, it became my lifeline. When things got tough, I hid away in my room and stayed up all night until I had finally run out of Taylor Swift songs to master. I didn’t know what else to do. And one night, I decided to write a song. I used to write silly songs with choppy rhymes when I was in third grade with my nonexistent musical ability. But they weren’t any good and my friends would make fun of me, so I stopped doing it. Six years later, I was trying to make sense of my life again and thus was the beginning of my relationship with nonfiction writing. It’s interesting to think of songwriting as nonfiction, but that’s what it is, really. It’s the raw telling of emotions in a way that allows people to connect to it. There are some things I’ve written into songs that I could never have said out loud. Some of my most honest feelings I discover through the songwriting process. Its less about creating and more about uncovering, revealing one of the most vulnerable versions of yourself.

            I wrote every day, and still do. In class, next to quadratic equations or literary themes are words and lyrics scribbled in the margins. My phone is filled with voice memos, clips of my quiet voice trying to subtly whisper melodies into my microphone over background voices, wind, cars. Listening to them later and deciding that most of them are inaudible mumbles, only a couple of them end up becoming something real.

            I’ve gone through a lot of phases and hobbies in my life, but my guitar has been a constant. My relationship to music, my guitar and to my songwriting is what led me here. It’s what made me switch my major. It’s why I am able to write this piece right now. And it’s something, the one thing I know that I will never stop doing.