write short stories

I’m writing a story about people who aren’t motivated.

This semester there will still be a writer’s workshop. Last semester I wanted desperately to join but my schedule clashed with it most pathetically, and it was impossible for me to get into a single meeting. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to cry my heart out over it, but other things in my life are what caused me to cry. But this semester, Mr. Polk and I shall talk, and talk we shall. We shall discuss my schedule. And when I get into that club, I WILL improve my prose skills. I’ll have to anyway. Short stories are assigned. Though I’m confident, as I’ll finally get to share me poems. Me poems are growing dust, locked away in my little binder and little sheet protectors. Damn the rain, damn the sun. I will do it, do it, do it, till one of the two exerts its meteorological ecstacy.

I’d like to write prose someday. I love to read it, so I want to make it. Never once in my life have I finished a non-school-related short story that I’ve worked exceptionally hard on.