First Essay in Law

 First Law Essay

In fairness, I’ve always loved writing—since I was a child. Stories mostly, fan fiction occasionally, and letters to friends and family, even to this day. I adore putting pen to paper—literally—and seeing those beautiful lines on a white page become something meaningful.

My mind has always been full of ideas, obsessions, and observations.
That passion culminated a few years back when I wrote my biggest novel: Where We Belong. It had been a labour of love, and I was convinced I would, most certainly, be picked to become a best-selling author.

But the reality didn’t quite match the dream.

I couldn’t find an agent—never mind a publisher—and eventually decided to self-publish and design the covers myself. I suppose it gave me a huge sense of completion and pride, even though I missed out on advertising, networking, and the know-how to make it successful.

Then life carried on. The delight and excitement I’d felt turned to slight embarrassment, then to hardly mentioning it, and finally to completely ignoring it.

It made me doubt my ability to write well—or to promote my own work. That blow to my writer’s confidence sits somewhere on my imaginary board titled Imposter.

Am I really a writer? Surely everyone has written a novel. People write all the time—look at J.K. Rowling. She was a success after many rejections...

Still, that setback only stopped me from writing fiction, which I love. I went on to write academically, especially in the field of education.

And yet, even there, very little success has been achieved.

Continuous setbacks are so destructive. They crushed my confidence in aligning words to convey the endless stream of thoughts in my mind. The flow never rests. Sometimes, the urge to put it all on a page is overwhelming—yet disorganised and messy.

Then came the essays.

Studying law requires a series of essays tied to the modules we study, and writing within such a strict structure turned out to be a real challenge. Not achieving top marks was yet another blow to my confidence.

It wasn’t due to lack of research or effort. The grades felt painful to receive and disappointing to accept. They reminded me that I am a first-year law student—not a seasoned writer.

It stirred anger in me—for not being more successful, for skipping steps, for missing out on details, for ignoring what I assumed was best practice. It pushed me back to a time when I didn’t have a nonstop brain blurting out constant prose. A time of peace within myself, when only specific, lit-up ideas made it to the page.

It made me want to revisit what I wrote then—to dig out old essays from twenty years ago on topics like “New Labour” or European politics in the ‘80s.

What I found was a very boring version of me: no real personality, no passion, and a clear lack of enthusiasm for the subject matter.

In contrast, fifteen years later, the essays I wrote for my counselling diploma were far more personal and reflected an evolution in my writing style that I had started to love. But even then, I felt they lacked flavour.

So, when I began writing about Theft for my criminal law essay, I had high hopes. Hopes that my voice would shine through, and that when I reread it in the future, I could be proud of the clear progress I’d made.

I just hope that when I do read it again—despite a just-about-passing grade—I’ll still be proud to have made it this far.