Well I’m not going to write myself

A white piece of blank notebook paper sits in front of me. If could speak it would probably say “Well I’m not going to write myself”. I galance back at the prompt page. “After reading this passage, sythnesis how the author uses tone”.  “Yep.” I think to myself, “still hasn’t changed and I’m still running into writers block”. This time, thought, my writers block feels like my brain is trapped in a room with no doors, one chair and a desk in the center of the room, with the time standing there shouting how much time is left every 5 minutes. Every 5 minutes on the dot! Did I mention the walls are also made of cement? My brain can’t escape from this room. Trapped like a wasp in a jar. Although my brain is considerably less angry than a wasp in a jar. Trying to come up with an answer to put to paper, I sit there and think for a moment. Than an idea finally pops into my head. Bursting through the wall saying “OHH YEAHH!” Like koolaid man, the idea breaks my writers block and the wall that was apart of the that writers block.  For a little while my brain is free from that wretched room. But than I put pen to paper. With swift movement I start writing. Than I stop. I reread what I wrote down and now I hate it. Scratching out what I wrote, my brain gets caught by the cops and dragged bloodied and beaten like the guy who got dragged out of the united plane. Thrown back into the room, the door that my brain came through is closed than it disappears. The wall that was destroyed by the idea is now fixed and cemented shut. The writers block continues. Now even worse than before. 
“How do I write this essay without being formulaic?” I think to myself. “I’ve never been formulaic when writing! Never! My writing has always been of the best in my class! I was known for writing in a unique ways to answer the question!” The teacher calls out that we have 10 minutes left. On the outside I remain cool and calm. There’s nothing that’s bothering me and I can get this done. On the inside that’s a completely  different story. I’m freaking out! In the HQ of my body, my brain, there’s little me’s in suits running and screaming. A fire has formed because someone let the guy who likes burning stuff out of his cage. While everyone is screaming”HURRY!” Or “CRAP CRAP CRAP!” He’s yelling “BURN BURN BURN! EVERYTHING BURN!!!” If I was able to stop writing and just go play video games and hide from my responsibilities, I would do it right now. So I could stop feeling like the idiot among intelligent people. This year, I’ve felt like the stupid guy in my AP class. In past years in regular classes I felt like, and was, the smart kid. I was the guy who was better in English class than most of the people in the room. This year, I feel like I’m dummer than a bag of bricks. Everyone in my class is over achievers. Everyone. None of them seem to have trouble doing the class work or feel like their drowning in the work. While most of them have written a full 3 pages already, I’m still stuck on one page. All I have is something about the tone being darker than a black hole. People say I’m a good writer. But how can I be a good writer if I’m getting 2’s, 3’s and 4’s on test! I should getting 6’s, 7’s and 8’s! That’s being a good writer. It’s at moments like these where I wonder if I should not go into  journalism or if I should give up on writing. I want to write! I really do! But are these grades telling me something about my writing? Are they foreshadowing something? 

“Five minutes left.”  I begin scrambling to write stuff down so I can at least get a 2. My pen meets my paper and I start writing. While ideas don’t instantly hit me square in the head. They do come. By the time the teacher calls “2 minutes left” the ideas are flowing from my head, to my pen and onto my paper like a Texas River or Road filled with water after a heavy rain fall. 
“Times up!  Turn in what you have!” Getting up, I look at my paper. The front page is a wall of words. Some parts you can barely read what it says. The back only has 1 or 2 lines filled. I turn it in and walk back to my desk to get my stuff. Looking at the clock on the wall, it’s one minute left till the bell rings. One of the people sitting at my group looks at me. “What do you think you got?” He ask. I sit there for a moment. Looking at the ground I ponder my answer. Finally, I look back up and make eye contact with guy who asked me the question. “I think I got a 5 or 6.” That was a lie. I actually thought I got a 1 or 2. But I didn’t tell him that. I want to seem like I have self confidence. The bell rings and I’m off to third period and lunch. With the timed writing weighing in the back of my mind, I eat my lunch and move on to Astronomy. The rest of the day the timed writing remains in the back of my mind. By the time I fall asleep at 1 am in the morning. I have finally forgotten about it. It wasn’t until 3 days later when it reappears in my mind. When it shows up on homeaccess center. The number 65 appears next to the words “Timed writing.” Another 65, another day of me questioning my ability to write and me wanting to do an AP class. Along with me explaining to my dad why he shouldn’t be mad at my 65. Just another weekend in my house I guess.


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