The Woes of a Writer (and How She Solved Them)
The pen is mightier than the sword
I am frustrated. Why? Well, as though you even cared. You see, my teacher doesn't appreciate my writing, but that's not the worst part. Oh, here, let me start from the beginning. No, no, that's horrible. "Let me start from the beginning." Horribly clichéd and boring. I just can't think of another way to say it right now because I. Am. Frustrated.
I am a writer. I take writing classes at my school. Or rather, I used to take classes until that little incident. Hmph. Anyway, my teacher did not like my writing and kept telling me to try harder, that I'm missing my errors, and that I'm not even trying to correct them. Well, perhaps it is because I don't consider them errors at all! I am attempting original stories. And I mean seriously original, something truly unique. He says that the characters are unbelievable, the plot is erratic, the whole story is confusing, blah, blah, blah. He just doesn't understand.
He loves the stories other people give him and shows the "original, imaginative" ones to me, so I can see how it's done. Yuh huh. Those. Are. Boring. They are not original anymore; they simply copy what was original. Ooh, look, a plot twist! Yes, only problem was that I was expecting a plot twist of this fashion and not having one would have been even more shocking. Or what about those humor stories? Yes, just add the following words to any sentence, and it's automatically funny: chicken, monkey, spork, llama, random, duck, cheese, banana, underwear, etc. There, were you laughing? If so, I feel sorry for you.
I don't even want to think of those sappy romance stories. No. No. No. Or those dull "horror" stories. Simply horrible. Everything has been done once and again and the same way. I'm trying to present a story that might not be all that new but in a new, different form. Shows things in ways they haven't been shown before... No, can't do that, it's confusing. Oh, sorry, Mr. I-need-everything-drawn-out-for-me-otherwise-I-won't-be-able-to-understand-it. Or maybe Mr. If-I-don't-understand-something-it-means-it's-bad-not-that-I'm-just-plain-stupid.
Idiots. They don't appreciate my talent. But like I said, that's not the worst part. I decided to march up to Mr. Idiot-Face and tell him just what I thought of his classes. I had already started home after classes were over, but I debated with myself and decided to just go and tell him now. By the time I had walked all the way back to school, only a few teachers were still there. (I could see their cars parked in the back lot.)
I marched through the halls and up into his office without knocking. Hah. I'm usually not one for rudeness, but what can I say? I wasn't very happy that day. Good heavens, please ignore that horrible rhyme. It was completely unintentional. I would change it but my eraser is too thin and junky and just smears the paper. Don't you just hate it when erasers smear the paper? They're supposed to fix mistakes, not make them worse! Oh, but I'm getting off-topic, here let me go back (I'm in his office, remember?):
"Mr. H-," I said loudly, standing firmly before his desk. He looked at me with his mouth gaping open slightly, one hand holding a pencil, the other holding a paper from that girl that sits next to me. (I could see her name on the top line. She's really annoying. She has these sickly brown curls and thinks she's really something just because she gets straights A's on everything.) He better close that mouth before he starts drooling all over the paper!
"Uh, A-?" Yes, it is I, Butt-Face! (Please notice my under-appreciated correct grammar usage.) "What are you doing here?" Good, he set the paper and pencil down and slapped his lips together.
"I came here to tell you just what I think of your classes!"
He rose an eyebrow and steepled his fingers. Oh, heavens, don't give me that look Snot-Face (not you, I'm talking about him). He reminds me of a therapist or something. I stood there fuming, and unwittingly pouting, until he gave a small nod to inform me he was listening, and I could go on to yell at him.
"They're horrible! You allow for no creative talent What. So. Ever." Here, I paused to let that sink in. He opened his pale mouth to interrupt, but no you don't! "And you don't see my talent! You. Are. Hindering. Me."
"You believe you could do better without taking my classes?" Well, he certainly wasn't very smart, is he?
"Then, by all means, please do quit. You know perfectly well this is an optional class."
"Grr! I would, but that's the problem!"
See, my parents really want me to be involved in one of the arts. They tried painting and music and sculpture and subjects like that, but we finally found out that what I really liked doing was writing! But my parents thought the same way my teachers thought. They didn't like my work and forced me into taking these stupid classes so I could improve. I tried to explain that to him, but I was upset and probably spoke very quickly—and why is he laughing! I can't believe it! He's laughing at me!
"Miss A- I'm sorry, but I think you're over-reacting a bit. You would have done very well as an actress." He clasped his hands together and rested his ugly gray head against them, his shoulders shuddering from suppressed laughter. Idiot.
"What's wrong with my stories?" I demanded, crossing my arms. A fair demand. Honestly, how can he laugh at me? Talk about immaturity!
"They are... how can I put this? They have no coherent plot. The characters are underdeveloped. You have to try to think more when you write." I can't believe it! Is he implying I don't think when I write? I think a lot when I write! In fact, I'm always thinking a lot, more than he does, by the looks of it.
I fumed and pouted a bit more. "My parents thought so too! They just don't understand—" I took out my handy green pencil.
"Miss A-—W-what are you doing?" Oh, and now he started stuttering.
"They're mine. I made them. They represent who I am. They are me!" A way to show my hopes and dreams and feelings!
"Miss A-—Put that down, you may harm someone." No duh!
"You are trying to control them! And that way control me!" I honestly can't stand when people think they know what's best for me. Hel-LO, I'm not an eight-year-old.
"Miss A-!" And he was screaming by now, but I payed him no attention. I was trying to explain my thoughts to him and he just kept interrupting me. Talk about rude!
"You criticize them—you criticize me!"
"And I'm tired of that! I'm tired of it! I WANT TO BE ME!"
He finally shut up. But now I had blood all over my clothes and even my new shoes! Oh, well, it was a "small price to pay." I really hate that saying—it's used so often that it makes my cringe. So, how else can I say it? It was worth it? No, that's overused also. Oh, well, you get the point. I can't think very clearly now anyway because I'm frustrated. People just don't want to listen to me.
Finally, I'm coming to the climax: The reason I am frustrated. You see, they took me away from that horrible school and those horrible people others insist on calling my "parents," and they moved me to a new place. But now, this new place has a whole bunch of even-dumber people and everyone talks all "soothingly." If I didn't know better, I'd say I was in a mad house! What's worse is that I don't have my computer so now I have to write everything by hand! Now they're not treating me like an eight-year-old, they're treating me like a five-year-old!
Urgh, I just can't stand these people. And now my hand hurts, and I have cramps. Ooh, I'd love to vent more, but I can't. Some idiot is chewing on the corner of my paper, and we already had lunch! Oh, I swear if he doesn't stop that, I'll poke him with my pencil. It's not that sharp anymore because I use it a lot, so I guess I'd have to put more force into it.
Oh heavens! Now there's blood specks on my paper. I hope you can still read the parts that got dripped on. That idiot had no right to bleed all over my paper! See what I mean? People are always picking on me, being mean to me, trying to change me, treating me like a something-year-old. And I guess I have to go now, a whole bunch of people have started screaming at me. I'm not deaf you know! (I'm talking to them.) OK, my hand hurts too much. I'd better go now.
Thanks for reading!
A/N: Because all writers are insane. My attempt at humor. Feel free to review without fear of being stabbed. Inspired by "How to be a Writer" by Lorrie Moore, "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and Psycho... the movie.
Edit: Re-uploaded because of a couple of grammar errors. Extended Author's Note and added this message.