Summary: I've been working on a play manuscript for a year now. Writing it makes me feel as if there's no bad in the world, and even if there was I could get rid of it with ease. Sucked into this world of mine with a smile, I hear my mom call my name. Instantly all the bad whooshes back.
I'm not like the average teenager. Although my friends like that about me, my parents don't. I don't expect this writing thing of mine is going to be a career. I also don't know what else I would want to do with my life. I wonder what people would think of me if they read what I wrote. Would they grimace but try and hide it? Would they enjoy it? No, not possible. Well, if that ever happened I wouldn't believe it anyway. Neither would my mom.