I stripped off quickly, not even wanting to look at the bruise I knew was blossoming over the dark brown skin of my stomach. I was like an ill adorned Signing Day tree. Blue and purple blobs decorated my skin in a grotesque pattern; hashes ran across my back linking like plastic tinsel. I sighed. Was the principal right? Was I bound for a life of mopping toilets or emptying garbage cans? Had I given up? It seemed to me to give up you first had to give in to something. I had no ambitions, no idea what I wanted out of my life, only that I uncontrollably tumbled from one bad event to another.
I pulled on my nightdress and climbed into my rickety old bed, pulling the thin yellow covers up to my chin. Maybe things could be different. I could try harder at school. I could stop getting into trouble. It wasn’t too late for me. I laughed humourlessly as I realised what a ridiculous thought that was. And I gave in to it. To the fact that I was a trouble maker and tomorrow I would most likely do it all over again, in another way, in another place but it would always be the same. Nothing changes.
I haven't given in to the idea of being a writer. It seems too unreal, and so very unlikely. I'm sure most writers feel the same and have other careers, other commitments pulling at them. It's hard not to get discouraged by the millions of writers out there compared to published authors. That's why I have to take the small achievements and hang onto them. Like seriously cling to them like a life raft because otherwise I would sink.
Writing is so much fun, I love the process, the lost sideways and upside down in another world part but I'm not going to pretend that that's enough. I want to be published.