I 

remember standing in the shade 
of an olive tree in Panathinaiko 
Stadium 
Square, 
sweat 

dripping down my face, trying to hail 
a cab. Classes had just gotten out for 
the day, and I was making my way 
to my cousin Zoe’s apartment. I was 
studying abroad at The Athens Centre 
in Athens, Greece, the summer after 
my freshman year at the University 
of Michigan. At this time, I felt left at 
odds about what I wanted to do, not 
only with my undergraduate career, 
but also in the years to come — the 
classic clueless freshman story.

I was going through a turbulent 

period, 
a 
dark 
hour 
caused 
by 

numerous things including the loss of 
people and things dear to my identity, 
partnered with other stress factors 
and a stress fracture (which helped 
to put an end to my running career). 
All these were magnified by my 
immersion in a familiarly unfamiliar 
city. I sought comfort in doing safe 
and routine things.

Every day after class was the same: 

walk to the stadium and try my hand 
at hailing a cab. However, what 
happened next was far from ordinary, 
and, oddly enough, helped push me to 
the next phase of my life.

Every day I’d encounter a different 

cab driver, and more often than not 
they’d tell me their story. I soon 
discovered that the economic crisis 
in Greece had cost many people their 
careers, and everyone from academics 
to lawyers had turned to jobs like cab 
driving to earn a living.

My curiosity in politics grew with 

each conversation, and I watched the 
news with great disappointment: The 
journalists had nothing on the cab 
drivers. These cab drivers gave me 
an insight of the city I couldn’t get 
anywhere else. I found their stories 
to be so fascinating that I’d relay 
them to anyone. One day, over Indian 
takeout, Zoe, who would often listen 
to me ramble, mentioned in passing 
that I really should write these down. 
I shrugged.
L

ater that night, I took out my 
journal that had remained 
relatively 
untouched 
since 

being gifted to me a year earlier. I 
always had an affinity for writing 
and my love for it started back in 
high school. For me, writing can 
bring forward the weakest and most 
sensitive parts of the soul, and in doing 
so one has to face unpleasant truths. 
That’s the power of words. They can fit 
together like perfect puzzle pieces to 

form streams of thought that have the 
potential to be insanely beautiful or 
break your heart. That past year there 
were too many changes, too many 
things on my mind that I was afraid to 
face, and I had been avoiding the one 
thing that I knew was going to help me.

These threads came together when 

I forced myself to sit down and write. 
However, nothing came out. I thought 
that writing about the cab driver 
wearing an all-white tux that proposed 
to me that day was whimsical and 
harmless, but I couldn’t find the first 
word to put down. “Writer’s block.” My 
frustration grew, but I finally found a 
good place to start.

“Maybe if I just start writing I’ll end 

up where I’m supposed to be.”

I scribbled this line underneath 

the date. That line led to an overflow 
of everything — pages of writing that 
seemed to go on endlessly.

Once I started I couldn’t stop — I still 

can’t. That wasn’t my first journal, but 
that time, it felt different. It became 
therapeutic. Prior to that, running had 
been my main source of meditation, 
but at that point, I was injured. That 
summer I found that I’ll always have 
my journal and my pen which is enough 
to make all the difference, even when 
I’m at my lowest.

I started to play with different 

styles, different ways of telling stories, 
and found poetry to be my favorite way 
to express intense emotions and prose 
to accompany dilemmas and streams of 
consciousness.

As a young writer, I am extremely 

subject to the influence of authors 
I read and the editors I have. I was 
truly fortunate to have a language and 
literature teacher back in high school 
that really seemed to believe in me. I 
was introduced to George Orwell and 
his works, specifically “Politics and 
the English Language” (basically his 
guide to writing), and others, which I 
fell in love with (read: my title).
S

omething that I have always 
taken very seriously is honesty 
— honesty in interpersonal 

relationships, and honesty in writing. 
The latter is the only way to get down 
to the root of an issue and confront it 
head-on. It’s also the best way for the 
truth to be expressed.

My sophomore year I joined The 

Michigan Daily’s news and sports 
staffs. 
I 
was 
compelled 
by 
my 

reawakened passion for writing and my 
love of honest storytelling. It was still 
helping me heal, and felt productive. I 
am a very private person, and for me, 
writing pieces that are about anyone 
but me felt good. Reporting stories 
and including any relevant fact in 
an objective way took time and is a 
constantly developing skill. These 
experiences transcend the newspaper 
and carry over into my personal craft, 
helping me write and edit myself better 
every time I pull out my journal.

I view my writing — whether it’s 

personal or professional — as marking 
monuments in my life. I feel things 
more completely when I write them 
down. My mind clears up and my logic 
surfaces. These landmarks show me 
when I was able to look myself in the 
mirror and identify the stranger and 
the enemy that we can often turn into. 
It keeps me sane.

This was about three years ago. 

Since then my pen has seen it all — 
anxiety, loss, anger — just as much as 
happiness, success and my dreams. 
Now, facing graduation in about a 
month, I am again at a crossroad in my 
life, this time there are no cab drivers 
to help me get to where I need to be, 
but my instinct and experiences to 
follow.

Wednesday, March21, 2018 // The Statement
6B

Why I write 

BY ANNA HARITOS, MANAGING SOCIAL EDITOR

ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY KOFFSKY