To me
I’ve finished writing three times. At some point in my writing, I must admit the truth—that the font is not at fault. It’s not going to get any better when it’s printed in a different format—with the spelling and grammar checked—that no matter how much I try to improve it, there may not be much anyone can do. This is it! Let it go! Terina

January, I immerse myself in my new venture. I sink into the writing, surfacing for nothing and no one. I float it by a friend who loves it and a contest… that hates it.

February, I live on the theory that chocolate slows down the aging process … it may not be true, but who dares risk it?

March: The guilt sets in and I write less insanely, but still manage to accomplish the better part of nothing.

April: My parents read and then pan the book. They know me, and they’re right. Dad thinks it’s bombastic, boring, and bilious. “Learn from other humorists, or go back to writing instruction manuals.” Mom gently agrees that college may be an option.

To me,
This book is about uniqueness, being an oddball just like everybody else. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. Parents know best. How many times have I, myself, echoed that mantra? T

It’s May and I’m seeking the voice—the melodious tone that keeps the reader enrapt—the mellifluous essence of the soul. When I find mine, it’s a raucous din that makes no sense whatsoever. This too may never end, not in June, or even July. This jaunt may be a ten-year odyssey into the future.[1]

June passes, then July and while on vacation, I find a glut of fresh butchers to carve away the gristle! As they read the essays, they express an initial enthusiasm to go at it with a meat cleaver, but they are easily overwhelmed by the task at hand and they either nod off or drift away.

[1] The teenager’s homework assignment is Homer. Can you tell?

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