Jill Ciment, my creative writing professor last semester, really made me think about a lot of things. For one, unless I am able to continually devote myself to my writing... am I fit to be a writer? Regardless of the answer, it doesn't need to keep me from taking creative writing classes, but it certainly puts things into perspective.

When I was a kid, I enjoyed writing so much. I wrote so many things into any piece of paper I could find. Of course, being young, they were horrible and just written childish imagination (God I wish I had kept those papers) - but they created the passion for writing I still have today.

But I never thought writing could be a profession, and I actually even thought it a girly thing to be doing - so I never told anyone. I had a race car bed, with a blue and white hood that lifted outwards from the top. Underneath the wood at the bottom, where my hand was just small enough to reach, was where I kept all my notebooks of stories called "The Lost World" and "The 13th Tribe." Yes, my stories were all rip-offs.

In 7th grade, I finished my first novel. It was titled "The 13th Tribe." The concept was simple: think Battlestar Galactica in terms of human settlements (the first twelve human tribes are united in a single government, ruled by the 9th tribe, the French descendants)... the 13th tribe was a mythical tribe that long ago disappeared.

As the Emperor of the L.O.T. (League of Tribes) I decided to hunt down the missing 13th tribe. Surprise surprise... the final tribe was Earth! The story followed an interesting path. For the first 50-odd pages, I was unsure how to use dialogue so my speeches looked something like this:

"When I walked into the room I told the Commander that the sensors had to be malfunctioning because from my window I could see the enemy ship. He replied to me that such was impossible because of advanced technology."

But for the last 70 pages (my manuscript was 120 pages, approximately), I had dialogue down. My best friend, Gavin, had read it and told me that apparently, within every five or so pages, the character was either being "jolted from his sleep," jumping in the shower, "returning to [his] quarters" or enjoying a meal.

Regardless of all this, I was thrilled when I thought it was complete. So I printed copies, gave them to my parents, friends and some teachers. My parents were born and raised in Quebec... my mother still has a very heavy accent; my point, they don't really read. So they never bothered to paw through it. But what really matters is my teacher's reactions. They all told me they really liked it, that they had some grammar points for me to fix but that they found it imaginative and wonderful.

When freshman year of high school rolled around and I was midway through my second novel (much improved on general word usage and ideas) - I returned to my manuscript. I was revolted. I saw it for the utter thrash it was. In my anger at having been lied to by everyone around me, I shredded all copies of the story I had (I had many... drawers full of different versions, different editations and some with totally new scenes and longated or shortened versions). There isn't an existing copy.

That anger fueled me all through to college. No one but my friend Gavin ever read anything I wrote and even he was closely watched for lies. I trusted no one. And eventually, when I realized by writing wasn't as wonderful as the images that created it... my writing dropped. Almost disappeared had it not been for creative writing my freshman year of college.

I feel like I am still working through that hurt, though I understand now why they told me what they did - that it was good, for someone of my age, that I was able to write a conclusive, timeline abiding fully lengthened novel was actually pretty amazing. But it wasn't what I had wanted them to edit the story for - I had wanted my work to be edited and compared to published work.

I say all this... oh and I am sure no one is reading this far in I don't blame you... because I find myself so picky about the topics I choose to write about. I become obsessed with my work not being the best and I lose motivation. Then someone tells me my work is good, and I get an instant ego and write crap again.

It's a horrible cycle that I am fully aware of... and yet cannot seem to claw my way out of. I have three english classes this semester... a creative writing course where I need to turn in two short stories, a screen writing course where I must turn in 30 pages of script, and a literature for the adolescent class where creative writing assignments are given weekly.

This should thrill me... I should be writing constantly because I love it and because I need to for school... and yet I procrastinate constantly and produce lackluster goods.

I wish I knew how to move on, bring back that desire I once had to just write - regardless of if it was a copy of something else, or if it was total crap. Until I can move on, I cannot consider myself a serious writer. And that hurts.