A couple of months ago, I finished my "book." It is one hundred and eighteen total pages, and I have very mixed feelings about it. My first feeling is that of accomplishment. I actually finished it, and it is the longest thing I have ever written. I'm rather proud of myself for sticking with it that long.

My second feeling is disgust. I look at my style of writing and see how dull it sounds. I think about my characters and notice how undeveloped and two-dimensional they are. I read my story through and find all of the cliches and the lack of humor.

My next feeling is despair. I wonder how I will ever become a good author. I think of the great fantasy authors, Tolkein and Lewis, and feel that nothing I write will ever compare to their books.

My final feeling is hope. I remind myself that I am only fifteen, and that I have yet to experience many of the things that make good authors. People have enjoyed my writing, and it will get better. There is hope for the future.