Charlene always preferred to work on her own. she could be quiet, in the sole company of her notebook, nothing else, no one else. But of course, the teacher thought the class needed more socializing, and had created working groups of his own.

Her misery would have most likely been reduced if the subject at hand wasn't literally creative writing. that was her thing. She did not want to have to co-write with someone. She wrote a lot, to say the least. her room had one entire shelf dedicated to a collection of notebooks filled with poems and reflections she had written throughout her life.

“Well, we must use more metaphors, otherwise it would just sound plain.” She complained, her hair falling over her shoulders.

Your writing wasn't all that bad, but of course, it couldn't come close to the one of a truehearted poet. not even your company was nearly as bad as she imagined it would be; taking into account her rather lone way of pacing through life.