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The Monsters of Writing

You love me- even if Im a monster? he whispered. I stared at him for a minute or
two and leaned up. I hugged him, making sure he knew.
Yes, I do. I said happily.
I stopped typing, frustrated out of my mind. I was 14 pages into the updated draft of
the short story I was writing for my friend and it was still the worst thing Ive ever
written. I was pretty certain I would never get it right. This is going to end up like
Twilight; I thought bitterly, a pretty-boy vampire who just happens to also be the
king falls in love with some no-body girl? Wow, good one Sydni. Youre a genius.
Feeling anything but inspired, I clicked through the files on my computer and looked
at the hundreds of unfinished stories. There were even stories that werent written
yet. They just sat in a word document with only a title and a half-hearted, onesentence summary to their name. I took a deep breath in and held it there. Maybe
you werent cut out to be a writer, my mind teased me, all this writing youre doing,
its a desperate attempt to fit into a school you never deserved to be accepted to.
The thought struck a chord in me. I slumped in my chair, staring not at the screen
anymore, but at the desk, the keyboard resting under my fists.
Maybe its true, I said to myself. Maybe all this was a phase, a phase to be
recognized. I remembered the end of my first year at school, and almost laughed at
how ridiculous I had been. Most promising newcomer, why I ever thought I would
receive something like that was beyond me. The only award Id ever received was a
perfect attendance certificate. Everyone in the class was not only more determined
to improve, but also, they were better writers. They were better than me because
they had started earlier. It pained me to think I wasted a good two years struggling
through class after class at my old school, well, lost.
People tell me to think of it like this: Everyone goes through this. Its not just writing
that has its mountains to scale. And I understand that, I really do. I dont just write, I
attempt drawing too, and sewing and cooking. Sometimes it seems like I cant get
over any of it, like I cant get better. And when I look back, I see all my
accomplishments as failures.
I was glad that my former self had taken nearly everything down from those sites
like Fictionpress and Deviantart, but then something else frightened me. What if this
was just going to happen all over again? You think its good now, but you wait and
see. The voice in the back of my head taunted. Youll look back on this and be
embarrassed again. You think your work improved? Well, thats laughable. Youll
never be good enough.
I guess you could call the situation I was in, well, complicated.
Have you ever regretted a decision? I asked.
He looked at me, curious and confident. He grinned, shaking his head.
Ive regretted a lot of decisions in my life he paused, looking down at his hands,
but every single one of those was worth it. No doubt about it.

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So youve lead a fulfilling life? I tilted my head to the side. I mean, regret holds
you back, doesnt it?
It is not regret, one action in your life, which holds you back. It is only you, he
explained. Ive lived a fulfilling life when Ive successfully taught that to someone
else.
It was my turn to look away. I fiddled with my hands.
Will you teach me? I asked.
I already have.
Writing had always come naturally to me. It was like breathing, something that just
happened. I would pick up a pencil, and the first things written on the paper were
the beginnings of a title. I drew people, not just to draw, but to imagine what my
characters looked like. I observed and listened, just watching the world, trying
desperately to translate it onto paper.
I wasnt any good at it for a long time, because despite my fierce passion to study
words and put them together, I was stuck in a stalemate. At my old school, the only
writing I did was research papers, and the only corrections I received was when my
teacher handed me back a B or C ; the spaces so filled with red ink I thought
someone sliced an artery while turning the page.
I never really had any doubts, though. Of course, I saw better writing, and of course
I knew I wasnt the best; but it wasnt until I was figuring out how bad I really was
that I began actually disliking my own writing. Sometimes I would even stop writing
in the middle of a story, a sentence, and just quit, because it wasnt good enough.
What are you going to be, Sydni? My mother asked, the obviously irritated
undertones making the question harsh and cold. Have you even thought about it?
A starving artist isnt an occupation, you know.
I wont be a- a starving artist, I argued. Im going to school for writing, so I cant
be.
That doesnt mean anything.
Maybe this was all I was going to become, because writing fiction in your basement
didnt exactly bring in money, or food, or anything else for that matter. I stood up
from my place at the computer and left, going back up to my room where my iPod
was waiting for me, ready to take away my troubles with sad, stupid music.
I was raised like a priest- because that was what I was meant to become. Thats
what I was required to become. My family was Catholic, so I went to Catholic school.
My family didnt associate with certain kinds of people, so I didnt either. Everything
my parents were, I was too. I didnt really have a choice.
My mother did something in an office building from 9 to 5 that she hated. My father
worked even when he was home, always on his laptop, checking the websites he
constructed, constantly watching for errors. What was I to become? It was obvious I
wanted to write, but what would I do with that? Write novels? I already proved that I

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couldnt write anything that was more than 10,000 words and I dont know about
you, but the novels I read were much longer than that.
My parents have always wanted me to do what I loved. They always wanted me to
have what they didnt. My mother went directly into college from graduating high
school. She wanted to be a lot of things. She went to school for 8 years, enough
experience to become a doctor, only to land herself in a job she didnt enjoy, talking
to people she didnt like. My father followed his patriotism into the Army, because
his dream didnt provide the benefits and support that he needed to start the family
hed always wanted. Whether they wanted me to be famous, beautiful, or just
better off, were never quite clear. Maybe it was all three. No matter how much they
wanted the best for me, it always seemed like they were also pushing me in the
directions of the same paths theyve already taken.
I wasnt them. I didnt want to be them. But sometimes it felt like it was the only
thing I could become.
All the chairs were leaning against their tables; all the lounge chairs folded up and
placed vertically against the fence walls. I smiled at the scene. It was so beautiful
down here. The trees seemed to bow their green heads to the pool, casting a
variety of shadowy shapes onto the surface of the water. The distant calls of birds
and the scuttling of small animals made it seem so secretive. Dragonflies chased
each around the folded down umbrellas and through the holes in the wire fence.
I think that, at least sometimes, I write not for achievement, but for something else
entirely. It sounds so wrong. If youre not writing to achieve anything, then why do
you write? Youre just wasting everybodys time. That might be true, but Im not
saying my writing is purposeless. My writing seems to be more personal.
Something closely related to me.
I describe things, sometimes to the smallest detail, even to the dew drops on the
blades of grass, or the soft, chilling breeze of the early morning. I describe these
things because I love them, because theyre a way to relate. I want to reach out to
another person, to be able to speak through my writing. I dont want to write for
people, but rather to people. I want everything I write to be personal and on a level
everyone can understand. Whether theyre old or young, experienced or ignorant, I
want to be able to relate to everyone; because when it all boils down, we hold the
same feelings, or at least understand each other to an extent. Everyone has walked
through the grass and felt the dew wet their pant leg, or maybe even their feet; and
everyone has felt the cold grip of morning, not pushing you away, but urging you to
wake up, because it is a new day with new promises.
I make sure a character is grasped before moving on. I often find myself putting
more effort into the character than the actual story. It explains why Im no good at
plots, and why I can only seem to figure out the beginning and end of a problem.
The middle doesnt seem to exist, because I instead focus on the characters, and
never really finish what I want to finish. Some people might find it difficult to get
into, and despite wanting people to read my work, I find that I cant, or wont,
change it. Sometimes Im like that with my own life. Im here, in high school, and

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sooner or later Ill be doing something else with my life. Ill have a job, and maybe
Ill still be writing. How I get there, though; thats another story.
A boy sits idly at a full wall window. His seat is on the ledge, overlooking a
flourishing garden settled in a Green House, protecting it from the chill of fall. In the
garden are several small fountains. The fountains look like children with wings
pouring water out of a wide bowl or vase. Their eyes are lifeless, like theyre
supposed to be.
The boy gives a yawn and leans forward, holding his head up on his palms. His
breath fogs up the window before him. He draws a frowning face in the small
fogged part and watches as the edges begin to fade.
I have my own inspiration, someone who drove me to become what I am because
they were as successful as I wanted to be. From the time my uncle could hold a
pencil, he would draw. When he reached the young age of 15, my grandmother was
framing his portraits of vikings and eagles, real enough to be a photograph. My
father, his younger brother, always held a belief close to his heart. If you do what
you want in life, no matter how it turns out, you will always be happy. Although
that didnt turn out that way for him, his older brother kept it in his head, and he
followed his passions all the way to the head of an advertising company. A company
that creates award winning movies and works to create music videos for some of
the biggest stars in todays culture. Ive always told myself that if my uncle could do
it; a boy who grew up with four siblings, no father, and not a cent to his name- then
I could do it; then anyone could do it.
Or maybe I wont be some famous author, and maybe my books wont be plastered
with awards at each release; but thats okay too. Thats more than okay. My father,
the photographer, is happy even though his life doesnt revolve around the arts. In
fact, he loves photography more than ever. He often tells me that if he had ended
up in the field, that maybe he wouldnt even like it anymore. He told me just
because you love to do something doesnt mean that making a career out of it is
necessarily the right decision. Maybe hes right. I often think about the stress that
deadlines put on me and my friends. Is that sacrifice really worth making writing my
profession?
I used to think that things would just fall right into place when I really needed them
to; but no matter what I was up against, there was always something I had to
overcome, something I had to fight my way through. These obstacles can be cruel
and just plain difficult to beat, but I think they are as necessary as the talent and
passion that goes into anything you enjoy doing. If you want something, you have
to work for it; and if you arent willing to work then you didnt really want it to begin
with.
I havent really gotten past these obstacles yet, but Ive been fighting them for a
while, and Im going to keep doing just that until I get; well, wherever I get. I cant
tell you if youll be seeing my name in Entertainment any time soon, but I can
promise you this. Where ever I get, it will be because I worked to get there. And
really, thats all that matters.