The Writing Class

It's hard for a writer to find their own voice when there is so much pressure to conform to some kind of writing formula.

The writing class,

Was quite a task.

Each week my creativity,

Was diced and sliced,

Fed back to me.

 

To see if my work,

Ticked the list

For tension, suspension

And analysis

 

My teacher had a new degree,

She knew the steps we should achieve,

Could guide us with the golden rule,

For writing as real authors do.

 

And my own voice,

Raw - unique,

Was torn apart,

By her critique.

 

My words did not sit in neat rows,

Obeying rules I did not know.

They danced around the page unleashed

And made me laugh and make me weep.

 

They did not fit the boxes though,

The formula all writers know.

My offbeat voice was getting smothered,

So I could write like all the others.

 

I kept my voice and took my leave,

To let my words have room to breathe.

What’s a writing class to me,

Without my creativity?

copyright@dellareynolds2017