…and teen non-writers deserve them, too.

Teens have taught me a bunch about writing over the last couple of decades–both the teens who have already written five novels and the ones who would rather scrub under the refrigerator than pick up a pen. For a lot of teens, writing was ruined for them by third grade. For others, dutifully writing their five-paragraph essays, their love affair with writing is made up of clandestine moments, stolen from their more “important” term papers and college applications.

The needs of these writers are simple, but those needs often can’t–or won’t–be accommodated in school. They come down to two basic principles: ownership and community. Here’s what I think most teens ask of their parents, mentors, friends and teachers when it comes to their writing.

1. I have a right to secret writing. I may keep a private journal. It may have poems or stories in it; it may have letters I never send; it may have just random thoughts. But it is not for public consumption; it is not for anyone who wants to check my spelling or penmanship; it is not even there so you can read my poetry, celebrate my talent and understand me better. When and if I want to share it with someone, I will. In the meantime, do not ask.

2. I have a right to choose what I write about. I know I’ll have assignments for school that I don’t choose; I get that. But I have a right to channel my creativity in a way that rocks my world–even if my song lyrics make no sense to you or my spokenword piece might shock Great Aunt Betty. I have a right to create my own body of work.

3. If I am part of a writing group or class, I have a right to either share my work or not share it. Sometimes sharing my work with a group is helpful and feels good. But sometimes the writing isn’t yet ready to share. And some writing will never be ready to share. I have a right to know I can write from a deep place inside of myself, or that I can experiment and the teacher will not demand to have the work read.

4. I have a right to accept or reject critique. If I choose to get feedback on my work (and I can choose not to), I am not obligated to change the work in the way the critiquer suggests. Even if the person giving the critique is my best friend. Even if it is my mom. Even if it is an award-winning author. I have a right to decide what is useful to the piece and what is not, and to base my revisions on the advice I believe best serves the work.

5. I have a right to be listened to, encouraged, and respected. If I can find a group of people who feel like my “tribe,” because they are just as strange and quirky as I am, I may show them my secret writing–misspellings and all. I may share my spokenword piece with them and hear theirs. I may write weird, experimental collaborations with some of them. I may listen to their critique and weigh it carefully, because not only are we all becoming stronger writers, these people know me. And the real reason I write is to know and to be known.

If you know a teen still looking for a “tribe” of creatives, we’d love to have them at our TEENWrite EPIC overnight May 17-18 at Camp Huston. Our 10th anniversary Summer TEENWrite EPIC camp will be July 8-12 at Fort Casey.

Filed under: being real, censorship, classes, cool people, craft of writing, friends, schools, Student Writing, Teen Write Workshops, Teenage Novelist, teenage writers, TEENWrite Workshops by katherine
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Written by the Scenes and Dreams class (One more Teenage Novelist class to go).  Anyone care to continue the story?

The cobblestone walk was hard beneath my bare feet. I knew this road; it was an old one leading out of town. Shabby Victorian buildings lined the way. Moss and ivy crawled up the faded pink wall of the house on my left. Was this the house Emers had been talking about? There was a sound of breaking glass; I turned my head towards it and in a few small steps, I was up on the broken porch.

“Ehh! What are you doing here! This is private!” The voice seemed to come from inside the house.

I was confused. This property was so dilapidated that nobody could be living here; the holes in the roof were as big as bomb craters.

“Excuse me? Who are you?” I called tentatively. “Emers sent me. Do you know him?” I opened the old oak door, which creaked ominously, like a bad horror movie. Well, this was certainly sketchy

Before I could even take a step inside, he appeared. “Did you say Emers?” He was old and wore a white lab coat made out of gears, which were covered in strange stains. He had goggles on his head, which pressed down his bushy, white hair. “Sorry for the harsh welcome,” he held out his hand, “My name is Dr. Hiram Myers.”

Run, run, run, was my initial thought. But I shook his hand anyway. Emers had mentioned Dr. Myers once. He was a brilliant inventor, but all of his inventions usually managed to blow up–which explained the holes in the roof. I was definitely going to need a Red Bull. “Can you help me with something?” I asked him. “Emers wanted me to get some kind of medallion here. I know that’s kind of a cliché. Creepy house, mad scientist, mysterious medallion–”

Dr. Myers waved his hand dismissively. “Emers is dead,” he said.

Filed under: Bellevue College, classes, Dystopian, Steampunk, Student Writing, Teenage Novelist, teenage writers, weird by katherine
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Here we continue our series and allow writer Chandler Cook to have a crack at plumbing the depths of awfulness. This one has shades of Peter Shaffer… 

Horse Horse Heaven
By Chandler Cook

        There once was a boy named Ted. Ted liked horses. Ted liked horses so much he loved horses. Ted loved horses.

        The horses were Ted’s god.

        “Who’s there?”

        “It’s me horses, I love you.”

        “We love you too Ted, kiss us.”

        Ted kissed the horses. He braided their hair and put flowers in them. Ted’s head was filled with horses, he thought about them all day long in his brain and he never wanted to be away from his horses, especially the pretty brown one Ted called Queen Horse because she was royalty of Horse Land and she liked to be called that so Ted called her that and Ted was happy because the horses were happy and so was his best friend Mabel who was a cloud shaped like a horse.

        But Mabel wasn’t really happy she was actually a bear who just looked like a horse cloud. Mabel was angry because Ted never told her jokes anymore.

        “Tell me a joke” Mabel said.

        “No,” Ted said, “I’m worshipping the horses,” he said, “especially the pretty brown one called Queen Horse because she likes it.”

        “You’re a horse now Ted.”

        And Ted was a horse. Ted galloped to the horses and told them he was a horse then they said he was a horse and he was a horse so he was a horse.

        Ted was a god now. Ted was an angry horse god because Mabel didn’t believe in horses and neither did his mother who he hadn’t seen since he became a horse.

        Ted killed everyone because he was mad at Mabel. Mabel was a bear so she ate Ted and then Ted was dead.

        The End.

        P.S. Ted came back to live with Mabel and they had babies.

Filed under: awful writing, Bellevue College, classes, Student Writing, Teenage Novelist by katherine
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Here is the second in our series–in which we see more of the awfulness a writer can achieve if she truly applies herself.

Night of Endless Sadness
by Sapphire Hotlips (also known as Marie Guenette)

Filed under: awful writing, Bellevue College, classes, Student Writing, Teenage Novelist by katherine
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Filed under: awful writing, Bellevue College, classes, craft of writing, Student Writing, Teenage Novelist by katherine
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