Young Writers Society

None of these lines are good enough. Nothing I write is good enough! Bah! I could just pour my frustration into a "character" that coincidentally shares many of the same traits as I do. And then be criticized for ripping off Adaptation. I could write about my feelings, just like every other overemotional, hormonally imbalanced, impetuous, self-important, arrogantly and stubbornly defiant, naively ignorant and brainwashed teenager. Perhaps I'm too much of a perfectionist. I know I'll never be the best at anything, even the things I'm good at. Why bother? No, no, let's not go into questions like that; they can quickly become philosophical essays. I'm trying to write something creative. Something original. Something nobody has ever though of before. Including me.

Here's a thought: these are my words. On the press of a button, they will all disappear, and nobody will ever read them. The value of any grouping of words is subjective, so there is the possibility that someone will read these words and find great value in them. Probably unlikely, but who am I to judge? I can't even write a stupid poem anymore.

Well, perhaps I could if I would stop deleting everything five seconds after I type it. But that process would be hell to me....I have to watch myself come up with drivel, sit by and do nothing about it, convince myself that they're actually alright, and then post it on this stupid internet site, hoping to get a pat on the back by people who are probably much better writers. That is to say, much better at coming up with something they do not find it unconscionable to disgrace other people's eyeballs with the idle and useless entertainment they so enjoy.

Life gets pretty tiring sometimes. There's school, of course. That's always a bucket of good times with a heaping scoop joy on top. Well, the new History student teacher is cute, at least. Her accent reminds me of home.

I could bash my hands against the keys for a few years and hope that monkey-keyboard theory is correct. I could experiment with drugs and hope I find a source of "inspiration". I could write a clever parody of something I've read and liked. Here's something I could incorporate into it: "*girl's name* swallowed in a dry throat. Intensely dramatic situations always frayed her nerves. Besides, she was only there to add sexual tension. She took a deep breath and swallowed again."

When I thought of that, I laughed. But who knows if everyone else is so strange that they won't get the joke? Maybe they'll even get it and just think it's some tomfoolery a gutter-minded teenage kid cracked up.

I hate essays. They always have this one restriction, if no others: "It must follow the conventions of standard written English." Who the hell know what that means? I don't. What conventions? Can't I just say what I want, how I want so long as my point is clear? What standard? I don't see any flagpoles.

It's not that they're difficult; I can whip up the answers those teachers are looking for easily. They limit what I'm capable of.

Then again, I'm not capable of much when I can't convince myself that what I've written is not worthless. But there's always that opportunity, just out of sight. Some original idea, waiting to be thought up by anyone with the luck or patience or intelligence, or all three.

Well, whatever that original idea is, this isn't it. *delete*