Many of my articles are lighthearted. I do not attempt to write my feelings in an article because I cannot seem to get them written down. Ever since I took my creative writing class I seem to know who I am more.
In that class there were seven kids I had never met before. And the next day I could share my deepest secrets with everyone of them. My perspective on writing has changed too. I wrote to gain publicity. There were no feelings. They were just blank words on a computer screen. But now my writing has become mine. The kind that you hide under your bed and don't let anyone read, not even your best friend.
I'm sitting in my dining room. It's my thinking room. My "sanctuary." We never use it so I am constantly in it all day. The windows are open and I can see the sun setting behind the cornfield. And I am constantly hopping from one chair to another.
I call myself a writer.
To be a writer doesn't mean your work is published. It means you write with your soul.
I'm proud to be a writer. I'm proud to have ink stains covering my hands. I'm proud to be constantly slipping away from reality to write.
Don't look at my avatar and consider me a "Newbie" Times Writer. Words are throbbing through my veins and into my favorite liquid, black pen and on to this crumbled and bent notebook. My BFF's little sister calls me a party pooper. She gets annoyed when I see something and pull out my famous pen and notebook and write. She walks into my sanctuary and asks why I won't come out and play. My answer is simple. "I'm writing." She rolls her eyes and walks out. She doesn't understand. I don't understand.
This whole notebook is filled with words. Except for the pages that haven't been written on, waiting for my pen and palm to touch it, ink flowing with every sudden movement.
I have never written an article by hand before. But my words mean nothing if they're not on paper. My greatest work is here, in this notebook. Preserved by the coil binding. There is no lock, no strap. Just a plain, dark blue, school notebook.
I hear my best friend playing the piano. I shake my head from side to side. She is just playing notes. There is no soul behind it. Same with the Whyville Times. Some writing is informative and entertaining but there is no soul. Others grab me by surprise and put me in tears, whether from emotion or laughter.
My sister seems to by the only one who can seem to relate to me. She writes, maybe not as well, but she writes.
This article was not meant to have a purpose. My sanctuary is falling down. My words are ending. My pen is slowing.
I guess this is the end.
