about a girl (a little like me) who wants to write well
The wastebasket gaped at the ceiling. It was proud that it had managed to keep itself from getting its mouth full with things that its owner hurled into it. But its happiness was short lived, and in flew a crumpled ball of paper from the study. Many more followed in the next hour, falling into or around the basket; some full of little characters, some zigzagged with angry marks of blue ink. Soon the wastebasket toppled over, unable to bear the one sided weight of all the paper it had collected.
The young girl at the desk was at work, struggling to come up with a sensible tale of her own. Sheet after sheet went flying over her shoulder, each smaller and more compressed than the previous one.
At last, when the clock struck six, the girl thrust her pen into the holder and stormed out of the room.
Next day, Cassie--as the girl was called--came into the room much softer and calmer than the last. She picked up the little balls, opened them and tried to read the text through the zigzags.
"Why don't you read from a book first, Cassie? There are so many novels I bought for us to read. I know you like to write, but you should read more books to get a better idea of what you really want to----"
"But I do--I really do! Look at this; I wrote it all out while you were shopping. Do you still think I don't know what I want to write?"
"Yes, I do. And if you want proof, look carefully." The older woman turned Cassie's head toward the creased old sheet she held. "See how frustrated you were at your own story? That means you haven't really sorted things out in your head yet."
"Hmm..." Cassie said. "Guess I'll have to think about that."