Kicking Rocks

At fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen, I wrote like I was sprinting, feverish, trying to purge myself of something. The best part in remembering - if not necessarily in reading the jumbled guts of it, I don't use the word purge without reason - was that I never needed to explain myself. I could skip to writing the good parts, and write them as bloated as I liked. My heroes were grossly indulgent, my heroines conflicted but ultimately without flaw or rival. I didn't need exposition, I had nothing to prove and no one to please but myself and my best friend, who wrote with me. Though we considered ourselves quite different from ever other girl we knew, I know now we weren't alone. Everyone we met in college and loved and became friends with played the same games. We were all each others' trusted confidants on and off the page.

If anything, I'm beginning to think a firm understanding and gross over-usage of cliche is a solid foundation for avoiding it in the future. At least I was mostly spared in Introduction to Creative Writing, though I'm in no hurry to return to those stories, either.