Pictured left: me in high school. Just to set the mood.

Last month, I stumbled upon a couple videos of a LeakyCon panel called I Was a Teenage Writer in which Laini Taylor, Maggie Stiefvater, Leigh Bardugo and Barry Lyga shared passages of hilarious writing from their teen years.




I enjoyed watching these so much, and I laughed so hard. So I decided to recreate this panel in a blog post, and gather teenage writing from all the WHYA girls to share with you.
Kristan
Like most teens, I had a tendency toward the dramatic. My stories often involved death or depression — sometimes both. Back then my blog was full of "poetically vague" yearnings for love, or "hysterical" snippets from AIM chats between me and my friends. I also wrote a lot of Star Trek fanfic.

For kicks, here's a snippet of a story I wrote sometime in high school. I have NO recollection what this was about or where I wanted to go with it, but I hope you laugh at it as hard as I did.

She moved across the lawn without disturbing a single blade of grass. (Er, how exactly did she manage that?) Her dainty feet were encased in plain brown sandals, the kind you slide into, so there were no laces or buckles to fuss with. (I'm sure you were dying to know!) Her dress was a pale pink, frosty and layered, flowing in the breeze. (Sounds like a cake, yum.) Had anyone been around to see her, they certainly would have asked themselves, "What is such a young girl doing out at this time of night?" (And then: "Thank goodness her sandals aren't fussy.") As an afterthought they would add, "Sure is a pretty little thing though..." (Because apparently they are super creepy.)

But there was no one. (NO ONE.)

Sarah

"Teen me" was dark, and mournfully Romantic (Heathcliff!) balanced only by my hyperactive personality when around a trusted group of friends. I wrote hundreds of despairing poems and, when that wouldn't do, I fancied myself a Frost and wrote about nature. One poem titled "gnats" combined both despair and nature. I've been looking for my old journals (leather bound, from the fine collection at Borders), but alas I have probably destroyed them. I purge my writing from time to time, you see. It's an affliction, and I have yet to be cured. I will recreate the part I remember...(obviously capital letters cramped my style)
As a teenager, I dabbled in poetry that was often sad and short stories that were full of angst, but I was mostly interested in writing novel-length fiction. I started writing my first book at 14, finished it at 16, then wisely put the manuscript in a drawer to simmer for several years. Back then--just as now--I loved writing about relationships and the nuances of family dynamics. I was a hopeless romantic, but I wrote loads of dark stuff too. Oh, and I kept boxes of journals. Basically, I spent my teen years daydreaming and staying up writing into the wee morning hours. Well, that last part hasn't really changed :p

Here's a snippet from a story I wrote sometime in junior high... omigosh, this made me laugh!

A shrill voice screeched through the eerie darkness like a cat's claws against redwood. (Because apparently redwood amplifies sounds better than oak or, say, maple.) I couldn't run, though I was compelled to. I had to stay, (I HAD TO, okay?!) and so I did, standing straight and tall, stiff as a board, while scary, nightmarish thoughts drifted through my head. A leaf crackled somewhere behind me in the dark forest and oh, how I wanted to turn around and yell and kick and scream until whoever or whatever it was went away. But I couldn't, I wouldn't. Suddenly, right behind me, heavy breaths came faster, faster, faster...raspy, heaving, painful breaths. I felt them on my neck, cold from the night air. I turned, ready foranything, but not ready for what I was about to see. Oh, it was a gruesome sight... (Oh, the DRAMA!)

The night was a ghastly sight to behold. It was dreadfully dark and the rain poured in icy waves to match the black storm in Rebecca’s breaking heart. Her parents had agreed to give her hand in marriage to the dreadful Count of Arhovia, a stranger from a faraway land they’d never even heard of. He was far too old for her, and he had a monocle (the epitome of evil, of course). Her mother and father had never sank to such abhorrent depths of idiocy before. Rebecca suspected sorcery was involved. The count had no sense of beauty, so there could only be one reason for this mysterious man’s interest in her. He must know she was of fairy blood! (Undeniable proof!) There was only one thing to do. She would run away and live in the forest!

She was about to climb out the window of her tower (because this is the most efficient method of escape), when her maidservant came in bringing a little message tied with an elegant black ribbon. Sweet Rebecca, I would speak with you. Meet me in the garden at midnight. I shall be waiting. ~ Jacob Morris. (Oh, Jacob.) Rebecca clutched the note to her heart, hope fluttering faintly like a butterfly resisting death. (Not dramatic at all, right?)

Were you, are you, a teenage writer?