In-between.

I am taking a nonfiction writing class this term. I kind of hate it. It's that in-between-ness of it. Everyone is so unsure of themselves. We go in. We sit down. We give each other wary looks. We pretend to be secluded hermits, die-hard poets, turtles that shove ourselves into the very back row of a gigantic room even though we're a tiny class.
I feel like I don't belong.
There are no kindred spirits in that room for the two hours we are together. None. At least not with me. It's more like a book club. Of people who don't really like each other and never will. I usually draw princesses. Or bears. I'll tell you one thing, I will have a lovely stack of illustrations on notebook paper after these eleven weeks.
But I will still be in-between.
I wish that I was more articulate because it is when I come to this point that I begin to fumble. My words wane more than the moon. I have yet to find my place in writing. Believe me, I have heard many times, this is beautiful. Just wonderful. It's lovely. But then there's always the ripe, swollen question that they're dying to ask, what's it for?
What's it for?

I don't really know.

I have written armloads of "beautiful" essays, papers, journal entries, small books, critiques, speeches, poems, short stories, screenplays, puppet shows. Am I supposed to know what they are for? Who they are for?

Shouldn't they just be?

Is there some essential part of the authoress being that I am missing? Sometimes I think that I am lost. I am so out of place. Everyone I've written with and every class I've taken has yet to be the home I long for in my self-indulgent words. I often panic and talk myself into believing that there is no place for me. I'll always just be writing pointlessly beautiful things for nothing.
For no one.

It's one of my greatest fears.

That my work being will not be enough.

I just want to meet one person. Just one. With paintbrushes in coffee mugs. An affinity for pale pink paper. Big black, splashed paint. Watercolours. Hairy bears. Small monsters. Grown-up words for tiny children. Outside of the lines. Superfluous. Flowery. Late nights and early mornings. Little blue flowers on title pages. Typography snob. Lions. Expensive ink pens. A tea addiction. And words words words.
I just want to meet one person who is directly connected to the authoress in my soul.

I'm tired of loving dead people.

I want one who will talk back to me about syntax.