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I finished all of my essays but one. I wasn't planning on doing that one anyway, but it only knocked 20 points off the cumulative score.

This is my final personal essay. I suppose these aren't works in progress anymore, because I turned them in today, but whatever.

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Writing

There was a time in my life when I would have said that writing was my life. That time is no more.

A few short years ago I harbored delusions of become a famous author. Christopher Paolini had done it; why couldn’t I?

I could craft words just as cleverly as he could. I came up with more original ideas than he did. I wrote just as much as he did. I comforted myself with my friends in saying that I would one day get myself published like he did. Thinking back on it, we all comforted each other in that way. That was how our group functioned. We would pass around our newest work, and others would comment on it. I realize now the mistake in ever joining something like that, where we only existed to comfort and stroke each other’s egos.

Eventually I had a bit of an epiphany.

I realized the reason I couldn’t write a book like Christopher Paolini was because I wasn’t Christopher Paolini. I was I, Amber T------. I had more important things in life to do than to go around my entire life looking for someone to publish a book.

Well, that and the fact that my dad convinced me that all my writing was rubbish, and I would do well to abandon all hope of writing fiction, and put all of my effort into writing only through journalism.

So I agreed. I would put off all fiction writing, and the only times I would write would be for school, or if I took the intern position at The Press-Enterprise.

However, my father wasn’t counting on a small thing.

You see, when I went to middle school, I learned of an international activity.

This activity was known as National Novel Writing Month—affectionately referred to as NaNoWriMo.

I told my father about it, but, him being my father, he already knew. So I requested permission to try it. He agreed, reluctantly. If it didn’t interfere with my school work—although I didn’t have any to begin with—he would allow me to type it up on my mom’s computer when she wasn’t using it.

I was ecstatic. My friend who had introduced me to the entire concept of NaNo was excited with me, and agreed to take up my challenge of seeing who could beat it. Thinking back on it, neither of us won. But we had an absolute blast, and I got first taste of actual constructive criticism. Brittney taught me many things that 7th grade year, not the least of which was rediscovering my original joy of writing. She also taught me that constructive criticism wasn’t necessarily mean. It was just truthful, and if the person took it badly, then they were too immature to ever have the capacity write well. She critiqued many a writing I shared with her; teaching me what it felt like to be on the receiving end of such constructive criticism.

7th through 8th grade my writing phase took over my life. Another of my friends introduced me to an entirely new genre of writing—fanfiction, which I immediately immersed myself in. I’m still a prevalent author on several leading fanfiction communities, although I have been absent from them for quite some years. It felt very good to have my ego stroked again, to receive to constructive criticism whatsoever, to merely get reviews from people who enjoyed the story and wanted the next installment.

I was happy once more. My writing skill was at an all time high, my stories online were receiving positive reviews, and I was perfectly content to stay where I was.

However, I met someone. Her name is Melissa. She strolled along one day, observing fan fiction, and she came across mine. She gave me my first dosage of constructive criticism ever since Brittney and I drifted apart.
My mind jolted back to reality. What was I doing here, letting myself lapse into writing laziness? I couldn’t act like this!

I hit 9th grade, and again had my ego stroked. Mrs. Reed knew of my father and his strict limitation on my creative writing. I received many papers back from her with a smiley face on them, saying that I was the best writer she’d seen in all her years of teaching.

I’ll admit it, it made me happy. It wasn’t constructive criticism, and it wasn’t getting published, but I had written something that an adult thought was genuinely good.

If that’s not a step forward, I don’t know what is.

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Not quite as depressing as the last one. heart

EDIT: PHUDGE FORGOT TO CENSOR LAST NAME.

And that Writing paper was pretty sad.

Why would your dad tell you not to write fiction? Whhyyyyy?

And why did you listen?

And why o why did you give up on being published?

yuo make Kirby sad. ):

gonk

):