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Show Inside Out, 52 fluttering. As if I were about to open an exciting-looking piece of mail. Writing, on the other hand, always gave me this trudging feeling. But I knew that I could be a writer. How could a daughter of Ruth West, winner of the National Book Award, not be a writer? If I could win this slot to the Young Writer's Academy, my mother would know. Somewhere, somehow she would know. If Sophie had gone, there was no reason that I couldn't. I was every bit as good of a writer as Sophie, probably, and a much better student. And look at what use Sophie had made of the Academy opportunity: nothing. Sure, she had probably done some writing while she was there, but she had also spent a lot of "writing" time out partying with the college students, which was how she had met Jameson. And then, of course, she had come back home and lost all interest in school as she pursued her affair with Jameson long-distance. Until Jameson showed up in town, having dropped out of school and taken a job as assistant manager of the Arby's down the street. It was only through some extensive conferencing between Dad and the principal and some heavy-duty summer school that Sophie had managed to graduate from high school at all. And then she was off on the road with Jameson almost the moment she got her diploma. The Young Writer's Academy was wasted on a person like that. I wouldn't be that way. I wasn't like Sophie. I had to make it into the Academy. Then I would make Mom proud. I opened up a new file on my screen and made myself focus. A poem. That way I could use it for the English assignment, too. |