Writer’s Society

In an attempt to work on my “art,” (because when does one’s passion become an art?) I decided to try a writer’s society meeting. And sitting down to write this post is hard, because there is only one way to express my thoughts about said meeting. That lasted for a whole hour between 4 and 5 o’clock eastern time. And that is

……

That is about it. A stunned silence. Because I honest to God do not know what to tell you. I have nothing against the girls that were in that meeting, but I was astounded by their writing. There is stuff out there that is different from what I write, I am very well aware of this. But I have a genetic grudge against poetry, The Land of Too Few Words and Too Many Meanings. Probably because I am horrible at it. Believe me. I am going to stick to prose, because that is bad enough.

I was amazed about two things: the writing itself and the people. The people the most. That may sound horrible, but I do not intend to say anything horribly mean about them, even though there was this awesome parody piece running through my head that I want to write and bring to read next time, but I don’t know if they would catch on to it… Anyway, like I was saying, they just amazed me. And the way they talked in front of the teacher. Granted he is young, and I am still getting over the whole acting like we are adults, because no one treats us like that except the rare teacher. But there was one girl who AGGRAVATED me. I swear! I wanted to hit her with a mallet, and then the president would award me….

The writing also stunned me. Because my thoughts are not linear, but they aren’t…. OUT THERE, if you know what I mean. Some of the stuff I was sitting there thinking, how the hell did you get to that….? But they were probably thinking the same thing about what I wrote. There was a little “challenge” thing I guess you could call it and you got one word and sixty seconds to write. That was it. And this is what I produced from the world simplest (yes that was the word, do not ask me why):

The simplest thing I could think to do was say a few words that should never be said. What if they came back to haunt me? Because ghosts never die, even if you want them too.

Not exactly bestseller material, but I thought it had a certain quality to it. I liked it, but then you had poems about the oddest possible things. One girl, I actually liked hers, which was about how the simple things in life were free. I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I was sitting in that room trying not to stare at people with a look of “are you for freaking real?” on my face. That would be rude.

I am, against my better judgment, going back next week, and I am frightened because I don’t know if I can hold in all of my irritation. I am going to take something to read to them with me, but I am also frightened of that. Because I have to read it out loud, and I have a hard enough time letting people read things five miles away from me. I guess I have to get over it. It won’t kill me.