Writing (Or Lack Thereof)

            Since I have written virtually nothing in the past two weeks, let me give you my heartfelt apology and explanation. Last week, I was in moving purgatory, and my house was filled with brown boxes. In addition, I had no idea where our peanut-butter was, so that caused me to walk around aimlessly, for at least ten minutes a day. Don’t worry, my problem is solved. I have found my computer, gotten settled into our new house, and all is good. Except for the fact that none of us have any idea of where the charger is.

                I’ve been writing a bit, but not as much as I’d like. I’m working on a few short stories and today I resumed work on my novel, which is exciting. I’ve also been avoiding planning my novel, but I am determined to have a planned-out climax, and maybe even a resolution, before I get there.

                I have joined the Teen Writer’s Group (not sure if I've said that before or not), and I’m applying for a journalism class. Such is the excitement of my life. Without further ado, here is the first part of my short story.

                I loved you in the days when two syllables meant nothing. My father muttered, “She’s gone,” in a grief-laced voice I’d never heard before.  I didn’t understand. He stood by the casket, scuffed dress shoes planted in the grass, watching me. You darted forward, whisking me away from the shroud of my father’s coffee-scented grief. We ran among the trees, my hand clutched in yours, playing games where mothers didn’t die.

            It’s different now. Instead of coffeecake, you are black coffee, no longer inviting. Bitterness lingers about you, wafting through the air. I stay the same; I am the pale glass of milk, unneeded and always watching, wishing someone would care enough to notice me again.