Let me tell a story about how I’ve written nothing worthwhile and the semester is almost over.

Once upon a time, Allee wrote for three months, looked back, and realized it wasn’t good. In fact, it had no spark. It was a jumble of quotes and messiness. It made her heart cry big tear drops.

The end.

I read writing like Rhett’s, or Ben’s, or my editors and I feel like shriving up like a raisin that’s been in the sun too long.

I swear, I used to be able to write well. I promise.

Current mood: about like this.

There was a much better one. I just deemed it inappropriate.


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