Since I'll probably be up all night finishing my creative writing portfolio, I decided it wouldn't hurt to crack open the archives to see if I've improved over the years; and omgz, I HOPE I've improved from this. Holy cow, I was an effin SAP...see exhibits A, B, and C for evidence:
*Bonus points if you can spot the common theme!
[Closet Case]
Plot synopsis: A snarky, handsome jock and a snobby nerd get stuck in the janitor's closet together. Love ensues.
When I first laid eyes on Devin Carter in my freshman year, he instantly struck me as a boy-band persona. Heck, even his name had a boy-band sort of ring to it.
Devin was, unsurprisingly, an instant hit in our school. Guys admired him for his easy ways and ability to talk his way out of trouble. Girls fell head-over-heels in love with his guitar-playing, his dirty-blond hair, and his penchant for charm and petty troublemaking.
However, as any common observer would note, what is deemed by the general public as a market hit is not necessarily known for its quality. Rather, it is known for its style, convenience, and ultimate conventionality that is easily mass-produced and cheaply bought. Take, for example, fast food. It’s not healthy, it doesn’t taste good, and heck, it doesn’t even look that good, but it’s cheap and quick and readily available and easy to gouge down. It’s hip, it’s trendy, and it’s the food of a generation that is too busy to sit down and enjoy a handsome six-course meal.
Devin is a Big Mac. I don’t eat fast food. Case in point.
[Untitled]
Plot Synopsis: Hot Stud unexpectedly falls for geeky girl. Geeky Girl unexpectedly falls for Hot Stud too! Hot Stud breaks Geeky Girl's heart. Will Geeky Girl EVER take him back?
You were still in the wrong, but you know that. And I know I did some wrong things too, but I was inexperienced. You were the first boy who thought of me as something more than a source of study guides or erasers. You’d had lots of girls on your arm before I came along. You should know better.
You look at me inquisitively. “Should I?” You ask.
I hate that look. I really do. I tell you to stop doing this because it’s not going to work. You were a mistake. You were a freaking mistake, don’t you understand?!
You draw me in and pull back a stray lock of hair. “Was I?” You whisper.
Yes, you were. You were the biggest mistake I ever made.
But then…I suppose you were the best. But I don’t say that out loud.
“Sometimes,” You say, standing up once more and offering me your hand. “It’s not about whether you made a mistake or not. It’s about making the right mistakes.”
You made all the wrong ones. Did I?
I decide that there’s time enough to make one more mistake. But better yet, there’s time enough to fix it.
~end.
[Hey Denise]
(DISCLAIMER: I often use my own name in stories, even though they're not about me, because I'm too lazy to think of other girl names.)
Plot synopsis: Socially awkward girl falls for socially awkward guy. Socially awkward guy freaks out, which freaks out socially awkward girl in return. Angst ensues.
I suppose I should stop before I making all of you, or even myself, depressed. Not all schoolgirl crushes end like this. Only mine did. For weeks I labored, bent on killing it off before it killed me. It’s a process, and it’s dying a slow death, and though I’m now out of its grip, I still feel an almost tangible connection to it.
It’s like this: I’m sitting in the library again, several months after that Friday afternoon in September. I’m flipping through my textbook, looking up only occasionally to see the time. Yet I can’t concentrate on my homework because there’s someone sitting less than ten feet away from me, laughing and playing cards with his friends. I finish exactly one Physics problem during those twenty minutes when my mind oscillates between foolish hope and bitter cynicism. And then in that situation, I sink even lower into the mire of my imagination by remembering things past and wondering if they can be repeated.
I hear something shuffle behind me, and from the corner of my eye I spy the familiar lazy gait and a flash of spiky hair. My whole body tenses as the sound grows closer and then stops about half a foot away from where I’m sitting.
“Hey, Denise.”
I look up and see that grin again. Then I purge the wonderment from the air and tell myself that it’s only a dream.
Isn’t it?
I’ll never know.
~end
....and there's a lot more where that came from.
What's almost as sad as the quality of writing is that each of these stories were the fantasy story of my life at age 16...and now that I'm 22, that still hasn't really changed.
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