"Why DON'T you show anyone what you write?" Arnold asked me as we proofread each other's papers for our college composition class.

I set his paper down and skimmed it over, my mind skimming itself over instead.

Why DON'T you show anyone what you write?

Maybe it's because I'm too proud.

I know I'm a good writer. Heck, I'm one of the best writers I've ever KNOWN and that's including some of the greats that we learn about in this dinky little class.

I've written stories and books and poetry like you've never even EXPERIENCED and that's because... well... you HAVEN'T. And I make a point to KEEP it that way.

"So if you're so good, Helga," one (like a football-headed sort of one) might ask, "shouldn't you WANT to show your writing to others? Shouldn't you WANT their feedback?"

The answer, is no; no I don't.

Well... sort of.

The problem with SHOWING people what it is I write is that it's the only part of ME that I have.

Let me back up.

I'm a pretty spectacular person, alright?

I'm smart and I'm not hideous and I have a really great creative mindset that not many people my age posess.

But I really don't like myself all that much.

"Sure, sure Helga G. Pataki. You don't LIKE yourself. Because THAT'S believable," one might respond, but you know what?

It is.

Riddle me this: what do you get when you ignore somebody their entire life and then shove them in an atmosphere where you GET noticed, but for all the wrong reasons?

You'd get me; a self-concious fight-or-flight toddler who decided she didn't want to be walked all over. So covered in pink I stomped my way through life, through pre school and elementary school allllllll the way up to HIGH school where I graduated at the middle of our class because I didn't think I was worth the effort to try for those A's Olga had already snatched up when SHE sailed through it all.

She was popular.

She had friends.

She had plans every Friday night and dates every Saturday.

What did her little sister have?

Pork rinds,

Cheese wiz,

and a monthly subscription to Netflix and Hulu- my DATES.

"That's sad and all, but what does all of THAT have to do with your writing?" one might continue to prod while I roll my eyes, "Where does all of THAT come into play?"

Well hold your damn horses because I was GETTING there. Criminy.

My writing, yes, my elusive pulitzer prize worthy writing.

Why NOT show it? I mean, don't you Miss Pataki want all the fame? All the adoration? All the hundreds of fans who wait minute by minute for your next installment to your thrilling series of romance novels and sonnet collections... don't you want all of that?

Of course I do.

I want it BAD.

And I DESERVE it.

Heck, I've been honing my craft since I was 3 and at the ripe old age of 18 I'd have to say that with any MORE practice; I'll be the next freakin' Shakespeare I'll be so good.

"Then WHY won't you share them?" one would keep pressing even though I'm clearly getting antsy and trying to avoid these silly dumb questions.

BECAUSE, Einstein, they're all I've got, okay?

Just because I stalk around everywhere I go doesn't mean I don't appreciate the gentle breeze of a chilly fall day; the kind of day that makes the leaves dance around you where you stand like you're some kind of Disney Princess or something. And I go home, and I write about it all- about the way it makes me FEEL- my truest, innermost feelings.

And then I close my book and hide it because nobody has any right knowing how I feel because as soon as someone does, they'll run. They'll see how damaged and broken I am and think it isn't worth the trouble trying to fix something that is so far passed broken it's practically worthless.

It's worse than trash.

It's just... there.

So, the answer to the ever important question of, "Why DON'T you show anyone what you write?"

Because it's the only piece of me that I like. It's the only thing I know I'm good at. And if I showed that to people? If I showed them the one thing I was good at and bared my soul to be judged and critiqued and inspected?

They could laugh.

At me.

At the thing I THOUGHT I was good at.

And then I'd have nothing left.

I chewed on my lip as I kept my eyes focused downward on Arnold's paper ahead of me; his own gaze locked on me awaiting an answer to his question.

Why DON'T you show anyone what you write?

I inhaled deeply through my nose and let it out with a dramatic HUFF.

"BeCAUSE, Hair Boy. I don't need you telling me how good it is to know I'm great. That's the thing about us Patakis- we just KNOW."

He smirked and shook his head; returning his eyes back down to the research paper of mine he was inspecting over. "Whatever you say, Helga,"

Fooled him again...

"-Whatever you say."

Just a little thing that I felt I needed to write out.

There are so mqny reasons why Helga is my favorite out of everybody. And this little drabble is one of the many reasons why (I think) Helga basically equals me.