Young Writers Society

By clicking “submit” I enter a chunk of hush-hush truth about myself with this story.

Funny, my thoughts always seem to be caught in-between clichés; that is, when I feel blue. Everyone feels blue for a majority of reasons over a period of time, it happens. And when one feels blue they look for rose tinted glasses, or something. See another cliché there? Pff, I know. Loser.

My reason to feel blue is laughable and I will never say it out loud to the people I know. I hesitate to write these squiggles we call letters, that form things we call words and then morph into a powerful mediate between mind and people. I remind myself I’m under a false name here so no one will know who I really am. This sentence you’re reading right now was deleted four times. I’m really embarrassed. Let’s slow down.

It’s a light drizzle outside and everything is dripping with grey. My words feel colorless and the buttons I press on the keyboard make hollow sounds. I’m trying to exit the cliché mode to let at least one person out there know the truth and nothing else, no pompous adjectives or big words I learnt while cramming for SAT.

So, here’s the deal. I am as average as one gets, and obviously, as such status entitles I tell myself that I’ve got something special about me. Haha; you have no idea how blue I’m feeling right now. I guess showing your vulnerable side to people is always scary. I waited a long pause before I wrote the sentence you’re reading now.

What makes me feel blue? Well, I write. And see, I take art classes and I’m pretty good. But there are some people beyond phenomenal around me in visual arts, and the thing is, I don’t really mind. I often wish that my school offered Creative Writing as a course because then I’d excel in all of the requirements mirrored from my art class: constant research, “sketches”, drafts, completed pieces, comparisons of different “artists”, emulation of the skills, analyzing of the texts. I’d really care, I’d really put an effort. In art, I care, but only at some times, and I do not feel as inspired doing it. We’re getting close to my inner demon now…

It kind of ties everything down to this: yes, I’m average; but I always hope that my writing will get me somewhere, that I’m good, that I got this vein in me. I have an A+ in English Higher level, that ought to mean something. But it doesn’t. Right now I feel that I am a boasting, self delusional little person out here caught in between clichés. In between thousands of words and overly generative imagination. I’m out here (gesticulates to the space around) and my great writers vein is not really here (points at the area of the heart) but in my traitorous (lays a hand on top of the head) mind. My eyes are parched as I simply feel a crushing resignation. Now you know.

I’m planning to take a Management course in University, I have all the requirements. But sometimes, after watching the courageous J.K Rowling’s interviews, just sometimes, I harbor hope in my way with words to create worlds efficient enough to accommodate thousands of people’s minds. And then I think a little harder, and fall a little further in a pool of blue.

I read a lot and try over and over again, but somehow I know it’s just a fairytale I created for myself. I tried to be genuine writing this, not like a story, but like a letter. In the end this turned out like a story; but then again, ‘What is truer than truth? A story’-This proverb, one of those little things that are piled in my little fairytale.

Thank you for reading this, I think by now you know it means a lot to me. But then again, I’m just DiannePan, a fictitious person behind a screen. Smile.