A woman who writes letters well

Insook, the older girl who used to live next door and later got married and moved to the U.S., was very good at writing letters.

One day, she came back to Korea for a visit, with her long black hair and tanned face. I had expected her to look glamorous and stylish after living in America, but she looked even simpler and more down-to-earth than before—except for her pale skin now sunburned by the American sun.

Insook loved writing. She had become pen pals with someone in the U.S., and eventually married and moved to LA. When I was young, I thought if I got good at writing letters like her, I too could go to America one day. I tried hard to write well, but it wasn’t easy.

The first time I ever wrote something was a letter to a soldier. At school, we were often given homework to write letters to soldiers. I would write “Dear Soldier,” at the top of the page and then freeze, unable to continue. I was so frustrated. I think that was the first time in my life I truly struggled with a problem. I couldn’t even go outside to play. I sat there sighing.
“What’s with all the sighing, little one?” Insook asked.
“I can’t write the letter to the soldier.”
“Okay, write down what I say.”
She started dictating the letter, and I wrote it down. A few weeks later, a reply came from the soldier. Insook read it and again told me what to write in return. I didn’t care much about the contents—what excited me was simply seeing the blank page fill up with black letters.

The letters continued back and forth, until something unexpected happened.

One day, the soldier showed up at our school during his leave, holding a big box of crayons. He asked to see Insook. I turned bright red and lowered my head in embarrassment. He handed me a letter and told me to make sure to give it to her.

After he left, I stood awkwardly at the corner of the schoolyard, feeling the curious stares of my classmates through the window. I crushed the letter in my hand, not knowing what to do.

After that day, my teacher started calling me “the good writer” and chose me to represent our class in a writing contest. But what I wrote for the contest was a confession about how I had tricked the soldier, the teacher, and my classmates. Since then, most of the writing I did was like writing an apology. As I wrote, I would recall old memories and start to realize things I hadn’t noticed at the time.
Why did I do that back then? I'd ask myself.

Thanks to Insook, I learned how to write apology letters well. But I wanted to write something more creative and beautiful, not just apologies.
How can I become a better writer? I asked a friend who was good at writing.
She said, “If you read a lot of books, you’ll write better too.”

While she stepped out to use the bathroom, I peeked at her notebook. It was filled with long, beautiful sentences that flowed effortlessly. I was impressed. I went home and opened my own notebook, determined to write something just as elegant. But all I managed to write was:
“I want to write beautifully like my friend.”