These pages always intimidate me. When I write I feel like I have to prove myself; I have to make the words flow together or sound poetic or have some deep meaning. Even if it's supposed to be casual, it's always forced. I feel like some kind of fake.
I run on and on. It feels natural, but it looks horrible and the teachers always shake their fingers and explain how to really write a perfect paper. Though nowadays, it's never the teacher anymore. Just a computer screen flashing little buttons that you have to squint at and wonder what they mean.
I minimize these words every time someone passes by my screen. I don't know why; it's not like anyone would ever stop and look over my shoulder to see what I'm writing. I suppose the school library isn't the best place to write something you don't want to be seen; nor sitting right next to the printer that's always used.
But it doesn't really matter anyway. No one will stop. They're all too busy doing people's taxes. That's something that confuses me: how is it that all my other peers rush around but I sit here, unbothered, for hours upon hours? Is is that I look like an undesirable person to do taxes? At least I have this makeshift typewriter to rely on since all my other sites are blocked by the ever-controlling school.
...I lied. Two ladies have come and gone from my computer that I did their taxes on; one soft and forgetful; another spoken-minded and kind. I feel afraid to talk about them now; it seems classified. Maybe I should just lie after all and keep my lonely appearance of undesirable.
But now I'm back to writing, and it feels safer.
It's so funny how I can feel perfectly fine with showing people -strangers, practically- my words and thoughts, but I feel unbearably shy about the people that I know seeing my writings.
Today we turned in an AP essay to our eccentric English teacher. Ethan, poor friend, was so curious about what I had written. I knew that his was going to be so good... and I didn't know what I felt about my mess of words yet. So I turned pink and hid the paper under my hand.
For a while, I felt like I was the American woman that Marian "Eliot" Lewes was giving advice to in that simple letter. Like she was warning me that writing was not what I'd expect. I'm young; when I'd be older I'd find that it was the opposite of the pride and joy that I thought I'd feel. But I don't want it to be. I don't.
I run on and on. It feels natural, but it looks horrible and the teachers always shake their fingers and explain how to really write a perfect paper. Though nowadays, it's never the teacher anymore. Just a computer screen flashing little buttons that you have to squint at and wonder what they mean.
I minimize these words every time someone passes by my screen. I don't know why; it's not like anyone would ever stop and look over my shoulder to see what I'm writing. I suppose the school library isn't the best place to write something you don't want to be seen; nor sitting right next to the printer that's always used.
But it doesn't really matter anyway. No one will stop. They're all too busy doing people's taxes. That's something that confuses me: how is it that all my other peers rush around but I sit here, unbothered, for hours upon hours? Is is that I look like an undesirable person to do taxes? At least I have this makeshift typewriter to rely on since all my other sites are blocked by the ever-controlling school.
...I lied. Two ladies have come and gone from my computer that I did their taxes on; one soft and forgetful; another spoken-minded and kind. I feel afraid to talk about them now; it seems classified. Maybe I should just lie after all and keep my lonely appearance of undesirable.
But now I'm back to writing, and it feels safer.
It's so funny how I can feel perfectly fine with showing people -strangers, practically- my words and thoughts, but I feel unbearably shy about the people that I know seeing my writings.
Today we turned in an AP essay to our eccentric English teacher. Ethan, poor friend, was so curious about what I had written. I knew that his was going to be so good... and I didn't know what I felt about my mess of words yet. So I turned pink and hid the paper under my hand.
For a while, I felt like I was the American woman that Marian "Eliot" Lewes was giving advice to in that simple letter. Like she was warning me that writing was not what I'd expect. I'm young; when I'd be older I'd find that it was the opposite of the pride and joy that I thought I'd feel. But I don't want it to be. I don't.
