These assignments are like weight lifting for the brain. Except the brain doesn’t recover so quickly, and the weights are heavier and more foreboding than anything in gym class. I’ll lift weights, as much as I can. I’ll go for as long as I can. I love to feel my muscles ache, see them grow and shape. But I can’t see the changes in my brain. I feel just the same, except tired and bored. It exhausts me more than any physical work ever could. I no longer have any motivation for this. I don’t want to be a writer. That dream has been crushed too many times before. I’ll feel the words flowing like a river through my brain, bursting to get out and gush onto paper, and then when they come out of my pen, they turn stale, dull, clumsy and awkward. To a big boulder that’s just in the way of where you want to go. My goal as a child was to become a famous author, to inspire people like I’ve been inspired by other authors. But what’s a writer without a plot? Without the ability to make words come alive, instead of just being dots of ink on a page. I have so many ideas in my brain that it’s too crowded for any of them to grow to what they’re fully meant to be. A girl with dragon wings. A city of serpents. A mermaid, lost and alone in an unfamiliar sea. These are just pieces. They aren’t stories, and I fear they never will be. Unless I can weave them into a plot, good and solid, with highs and lows and victories and defeats, this is all they’ll ever be. Words on a page.

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