I’m not trying to be Shakespeare; I don’t throw around big words. I’m not trying to be Socrates; I have no keen philosophical insights to offer. But after reading my sixteen drafts, one would get the wrong impression. Through my witty attempts to elevate and fluff my writing, I hid my own style, settling for a one that sounded both foolish and forced. I write about Socialism and invent bizarre stories only Lewis Carol can understand. I don’t do well with constricting topics. I never have.
It was my seventh grade summer, and I had registered for a creative writing seminar. That July I spent thirty-five hours a week hidden in a windowless trailer set in the heart of rural Maryland. There I sat, staring at the burgundy colored walls lined only with motivational posters. Every class began the same way, with brainstorming. Somehow I was expected to convert my thoughts into words with only the aid of a picture of Mount Everest and the word “Success.” Mr. Scriven, our teacher, cared about the class very little and taught us even less. Excluding lunch, we had two fifteen-minute breaks, one in the morning and one in the afternoon; the rest of the day was spent