The Traumatising Experience Of Writing A Short Story
Ruby-Jean Chabaud, Grade 9
I slam my pen down in frustration. The cloud of stress that has been lingering in the back of my head grows bigger. Sweat drips down my forehead. This short story is due tomorrow, and I haven’t even started writing. All I had done today was hang out with my best friend. We went berry picking at a local farm, and I couldn’t help but stress and regret that I had left this competition to the last minute. I mean, you can’t really blame me. Its school holidays, and I am going into year 9 this year. That means exams. I want to enjoy the freedom while I can! But I also really love winning. The triumph and pleasure when it is announced that you win something is great. Although most people try to keep it humble, there is a little celebration going on somewhere. I look down at my empty piece of paper and get an idea. I reach across my desk to my laptop, which in currently playing music off Spotify. I open google and type “what to write about” into the search bar. We live in a small but well-known country town, on a hill, so the internet is slower than it would be in Melbourne, for instance. Finally (after only 30 seconds) the results come up. I scroll down through the websites. I eventually find one that looks good. My cursor hovers over the link. I press it and the results come up. I scroll down through the ideas, looking at some cute shoes that come up on a click baited ad. All the ideas are pretty basic, e.g., life hacks, animals coming to life, your biggest fantasy coming true, blah blah blah. I honestly just want to get this over with. Then a sentence catches my eye. “Write about a personal experience”. Now, usually this would make me groan because it sounds like something my grumpy English teacher would set as a homework task, but I really was running out of ideas. So, I open word, and make a new document. I start typing, but then my mum makes me clean the kitchen. I swear parents ask you to do chores at the worst times. But I do it anyway. After I am done cleaning, I come back and type as fast as I can. My words just flow onto the page, my hands a blur. My dad asks me what I’m writing about, and I simply say “the traumatising experience of writing a short story.