Writing Conferences

May 2, 2012
By Anonymous

I’ve always hated when people read my work. I feel like no one understands it. But my time is coming. I must have a writing conference for this semester and this is the last chance I have to do it.
Three students are going before me. At least I’m not the first to be humiliated by the treacherous conferences. Maybe I have enough time to devise an escape plan. I could act sick or say my dog died. Ugh! My English teacher would never fall for that, she’s been doing this for too long to be fooled by such a mediocre trick.
“First student, please,” my English teacher says. Thump, thump, thump, I can feel my heart pounding against my chest. I try not to look at the conference with the first student because I know it will freak me out but my eyes can’t resist. I look. Her hands move and all I see is a flash of red. She’s made about a hundred red marks on his paper. His pale white face shows that those red marks are not areas of genius.
It’s only when I hear the tapping of one of the student’s foot before me that shakes me from the conference.
“Don’t look,” I tell myself. Maybe it won’t be as bad as I think it will be. Maybe I’m a better writer than I thought I was. Ah! Who am I kidding? I’m terrible and the whole world knows it. I’ve never been published before, everyone else in my class has but I’m just a loser.
“Student two,” she says in a cool voice. Oh no, one student down and only two more to go. My heart rate increases. I reread my work and change a few things up that I know won’t help but make me feel a little more comfortable. Student two was finished early, that figures considering that she is my English teacher’s favorite student, she walks back with so much pride and I envy her, why can’t I have that much confidence?
“Student three.” I put my hand over my chest to make sure my heart hasn’t beaten its way out of my body. I put my head in my hands and stare at the clock. I pray that the bell will ring and I’ll be saved. I know there’s no chance of that happening. Student three is all done, he walks back with his head down and his neatly type piece of work by his side. He obviously didn’t get the response that he wants. My time has come, I see her lift her head and make eye contact with me. Her beady eyes seem to pierce right into my soul and she smirks when she says:
“Student four.” I get out of my seat. I can hear my shoes echoing while I walk to the front of the classroom. With each step, I gain a hundred pounds. This is it, I’m a goner. “Why hello, student. How about you hand me that pretty, little paper and we’ll begin.

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