Gabriel Souza on writing – "It’s about showing up and trusting that something will eventually happen"

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Student Story
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Creative Writing

I stumbled into writing by accident – during a job application, of all things. What started as a professional task turned into something deeply personal. I tapped into my subconscious, writing about memories, regrets, and emotions I hadn’t planned to share. It felt like something inside me had cracked open, and what came out was raw, but true.

Most of my writing begins with fragments – a phrase or a fleeting thought scribbled down in a notebook or on my phone. These often grow into stories. I can’t write from nothing; everything I have written is rooted in something I’ve experienced, and in the quiet tension I carry inside. A lot of the time I can’t write a single paragraph, until I write something where there is that first spark and suddenly, I find myself writing for days until I have completely drained myself of that idea.

I believe reading is essential to writing. Reading great writers like Shakespeare teaches me not just language, but helps me think how they would. Poetry, especially, fascinates me. It compresses vast emotions into a few lines, making things that are intangible suddenly real.

My writing process is slow and sometimes frustrating. I chase ideas, get lost and circle back. But I’ve learned that writing every day helps break the illusion that I need the “perfect” idea to begin. Most days, it’s about showing up and trusting that something will eventually happen – and usually it does.

AUB has helped me grow and mature as a writer. Feedback – especially on assignments – has been invaluable. I’ve come to see writing not as a solitary act, but a collaborative one, especially from people who know more than me. Since writing based on feedback I get from assignments, I have found that my prose has strengthened and I have found the process more enjoyable. I think that so many things contribute towards good writing, and collaboration with editors is what can make the difference between something being good and being great.

Text on a white background that reads: 'We sat in silence under the dim lights and the soulless tiles of the station. My hands were tucked into my pockets and I leaned forwards as I tried to make out the small posters and the advertising that were scattered throughout the walls. It was a changeover station and there was nobody else there besides us. We had come from Hammersmith which was bright and noisy, crowded by people from the concert. Unlike Hammersmith, this one was smaller and open. You could see nothing beyond the station but the darkness from the town beside it. My ears still rang as we sat on the bench. I remembered the organic sound of the guitars as it came out directly through the Marshall stacks as opposed to some headphones. And in the concert I never thought I could have enjoyed something as much as I did without thinking of the people beside me. I could feel that I was still slightly overwhelmed from the experience as if I was still standing in the crowd against the loud music. I was not tired and stayed awake waiting for any sign of the train'.

White background with text that reads: 'That night I had hardly slept when I woke up suddenly. I sighed and sat up against the bed frame, hoping for some fresh air. The glass doors that led to the balcony were open, and the white translucent curtains fluttered gently, spreading the misty light from the moon on the wooden floor. I could hear a swarm of crickets and midnight birds and imagined the sound of the crashing waves through the split in the balcony. The sky was lit up by town lights glowing across the shoreline, with faint streaks of light from cars moving along the hills. Cecilia slept peacefully beside me. A shadow was cast on her end of the bed, and her head was turned to the side with her dark hair drooping over her shoulder. Glancing around the room, I wished the moonlight was brighter and that the curtains could move a little gentler in the wind. I had already given up on trying to sleep again, and very soon in that state of mind, I was struck by the memory of the older lady I had met over dinner. I remembered coldly, the way she stood as she held the picture between her hands, standing as if nothing in her life had ever bothered her and ever would. She stood, as I never once stood as she looked back upon the past with what I could only describe as contentment.'

White background with text that reads: 'I had always felt more disposed to affection when she was distracted, when her eyes were fixed on something else and I watched her like I was seeing the truest version of herself. In the moments when she did not expect it, I had always felt like saying the things that may have been mured somewhere in myself; the lost thoughts which flicker and are broken or disturbed and could never once be whole. Like it is impossible to ignore a smile or the signs of spring I could not ignore the past few days we had spent together. I stood by the railings as if I was a machine and I remembered the words of a so-called prophet and how maybe the day before I felt so tender I would have said to her the things I wished to say. 'When are we leaving?' I said, instead.'

White background with text that reads: 'What was that feeling? she came into your life suddenly one day after disappearing at first and you felt suddenly like you had no choice but to go with it. For a few months your life consisted suddenly of trying to impress her and waking up early to make up time for her. It's not like your feelings have changed and neither your intentions, but you make up less time for her now. You came from a place where all the time you had was with yourself and those you felt were truly close to you and now you feel that you've suddenly lost that. You've realised, and have grown tired of knowing that life is about change. And with the change, things feel disjointed and then you come to terms with that feeling until you find something that you want to keep coming back to. As you carry on you get the sense that somehow you need to place things together. In the fresh wind you stare wide into the empty grass waiting for an answer. You remember the cave that you were once in, but you don't want to be in the cave again. You want the pleasure of leaving it. You realise that you can't blame her and that blaming her has made you cold and distant. With the distance comes corrosion that is killing what you have together. It may be that in your idleness and your dreams the submerged truth comes to the top. Those illusions laid waste your thoughts under the roof of that carriage. You slowly chose to ignore the fact that you were comfortably sitting in a train with someone that you were close to. I guess that's all I have to say, except the feeling just grows stronger everyday.'

For my collaborative project, I created a poetry and prose zine designed to inspire non-writers to give expression a try. I’m proud of how it turned out – professionally, creatively and personally. My collaborative project was successful because it created an outlet for poetry; it pushed me to work with others and taught me how collaboration shapes not just the product, but the process.

Outside writing, sport plays a big role in my life. It gives me space to reset, to focus so fully that I forget everything else. I apply elements from sports into my writing: the rhythm between exertion and rest mirrors how I approach my daily schedule.

Looking ahead, I hope to work in the creative industries – not just to earn a living, but to keep learning, growing, and writing. Publishing a novel remains my dream.

Read Gabriel's PROSE POETRY zine below.