I want to be a writer. I want to write insane scribblings that provoke concern for my mental health. And then I want to provoke a belly laugh, or even a chuckle. A chuckle would suffice every now and then. If I could only provoke tears... Or a smile. A sigh. A gasp. As for now, all that my writing provokes is a shake of the head and a thousand or so red, purple, or blue marks on the texts that carry on into the margins. My English class has me questioning my ability. I've never been criticized so epically in cold, permanent, red scratches.
Damn it.
English class is supposed to be my favorite class! I think I hate it this year. Despite my lack of my usual creative, poetic outlet through prose and free-writes, I think like a writer. I have this incredibly nerdy need to describe situations in my mind as it would be written in a novel.
But writers don't get a 77 on an essay.
I repeat. Damn it.
Love and frustration,
Carrie Anne.
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