This is going to be a Reflective Piece for my portfolio this year. I decided to do mine a little differently, as you'll soon see. Any comments are appreciated, as the final draft is due Wednesday (!). In any case, enjoy.

Writing, we need to talk. Don’t get me wrong, I still have feelings for you, but this year has been really rough for me. Last fall, you told me that you wanted to do essays and, reluctantly, I said yes. It’s May now, and still you want more. First you said it was for the ACT; then it was the AP Tests, and now the SAT. You said I would only have to do a few ORQs, and that would be that- foolishly, I believed you. Soon after, you asked me if I wanted to try some DBQs; I tried to please you, but there’s only so much that I can do. You never stop- you just keep demanding more and more. More ORQs! More DBQs! More essays! When I try to work with you on a story, you just clam up and ignore me. You even asked me to do a lab report, for God’s sake! Just try it, you pleaded, it’ll be really easy and really fun. That was one of the more dreadful things you had put me through, but it wouldn’t be the last.
What’s happened to you, Writing? We hardly even talk anymore. Please, think about all that we’ve been through. Don’t you remember when we were younger? When I’d cuddle up with you in front of a warm monitor, in the dead of winter? What about those long summer nights, when we did nothing but make sweet fiction? Life was so simple then; we were light-hearted and carefree, and we didn’t have to worry about proper citation or structure. We just let loose and made stories like there was no tomorrow. I still remember how you picked fights with Drawing over who I loved more. Now, you’re just so distant and cold. I tried working on a short story with you last week, but your heart just wasn’t in it. I still love you, but you just aren’t the medium I fell in love with.
Sure, there have been hints of your former self- that personal narrative we made, and I finally got you to help make a short story. Remember how happy we were when I held them in my arms. “He has your eyes,” I told you. “He has your diction,” you said, smiling. But those precious moments have been few and far between all of these countless essays you want me to do. You keep coming home later and later- the serial stories miss you. They ask me where you are, and all I can tell them is that you’re busy working. I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s going to work out- we’re not working out.
As much as it pains me to say this, I have to confess- I’m seeing another medium. Drawing’s cousin, Graphic Novel’s been so sweet to me. She cares about my feelings, and we already have a story in the works. I know this must hurt you, but you’ve hurt me for far too long. By the time you read this, the kids and I will be long gone. I hope you’ll do better with another Author.

Love,

Matthew Blake