Series finale, no cliffhangers

Mrs. Lake passed the papers out to each student in my class. She walked to each desk, sliding a freshly printed copy off the top of the stack, licking her thumb before removing the next. I was the last person to get the handout, and I watched as my copy was placed before me, then I read with great interest. Mrs. Lake walked to the front of the classroom.

"A poetry contest," she announced to the rest of the seventh graders and me. "Entering the contest is optional, but I'm requiring it. Everyone has to have a poem to me by the end of the week. The whole county is participating. It's a big deal if you win, guys. We'll take the last half hour of each class period to work on these poems. Now, get busy. Do good work."

"Great," the girl next to me groaned. She rolled her eyes and slumped down into her desk.

Mrs. Lake shot a cold look in her direction, caught my stare and smiled at me. "I know you will enjoy this assignment, at least".

I forced back a smile.

Mrs. Lake's creative writing class was my favorite, and something I looked forward to every day. I loved the assignments she gave us, and the amount of enjoyment I received from the time I took to write personal narratives about my family and friends, stories about fictionalized high school drama and R.L. Stine rip-offs could only be surpassed by the attention I got from reading them aloud in class afterwards. I enjoyed writing, and the stuff I wrote was decent for a seventh grader. Always eager to be creative, I jumped at each challenge Mrs. Lake threw our way.

This time, however, was a little different. This time, I watched as my classmates took the remaining period to jot down ideas for their poems. I watched Leslie and Ashley compare their poems, laughing at the silliness of the rhyming words chosen, and I watched as Andrea handed a sheet of paper to Mrs. Lake, proclaiming that she was finished. This time, I had no idea what to write about.

Two days had passed, and still nothing. I was spending the last half hour of the class period chewing my pencil and wondering what to write about. The same sheet of paper I pulled out on the first day of the assignment still remained on my desk - blank.

"What are you writing about?" Mrs. Lake asked me, as she casually strolled by my desk one afternoon. I covered the page with my hands.

"It's a surprise," I told her.

"I haven't seen you writing," she seemed concerned.

"It's all up here," I pointed to my head.

"Well, it better be here," she tapped my piece of paper, "by the end of the week." This time, I slumped down in my seat and groaned.

"You have 10 minutes, guys." It was the last day we could turn in a poem, and I still had nothing. Mrs. Lake was giving us our final call. Defeated, I passed through my head the million things I could be writing about, but had rejected. None of them seemed like good ideas to me, and I was finding no inspiration. I thought about my other classmates, and their discussions about the poems they wrote, and quickly dismissed most of their ideas as too generic also. I was getting desperate.

"Tashina," Mrs. Lake tapped on my desk. "Five minutes. I don't have anything from you. Five minutes."

As if possessed, my pencil hit the blank page with intensity. Every subject that had crossed my brain in the last five minutes was splashed across the page. New ideas, old ideas, and why none of them worked, this was all explained in my poem. When I had finished writing, I handed in a poem that expressed my exact feelings at that moment. When you have no idea what to write about, why not write about that? Mrs. Lake was pleased that I was able to complete my assignment on time, and my poem, "The Blank Page" went on to win first place in my school, second in county. When life hands you writers block, why not make the best of it, right?

Or not.

When Joel approached me with the idea of writing for HoboTrashcan two years ago, I was ecstatic. Finally, I would have a reason to make use of all the creative energy I was bursting with, and an added bonus would be that people might actually read it. Who these people are, I'm not exactly sure of (except for you, Charles Gilbert from Detroit, MI) but just the idea that someone might be interested in the things I have to say was and still is extremely appealing to me.

Unfortunately, I have no idea what to write about anymore. These days, I lead a boring life, with a job that keeps me occupied both at the office and when I'm home. My friends and I are getting too old for debauchery-filled adventures out on the town, and my parents are tired of reading about my sex life. I've also managed to piss off more than a handful of people who have recognized themselves in my columns and confronted me about hurting their feelings. I've never claimed to be a good writer. My grammar isn't the best, my vocabulary isn't vast and my ability is very simple. Something I do claim to be is a good story teller. Only, this time, I can't turn an empty page into a winning story. My battery needs recharged.

So for those of you who have read my columns, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have no idea how much I appreciate your interest in my crazy life. Everything I do, I do it for you. Well, not really, but a large part of it is because I strive to be entertainment for you. If this means I will have to go on a road trip, flash every trucker on the way and then hook up with a drag queen just to have something to write about, I will. Eventually.

Joel - Thanks again for the opportunity. I'm still holding you to your original promise. Somehow, someway, right?

Goodbye HoboTrashcan. Perhaps there is excitement in store for my character next season, but for now, you will have to just tune in for the re-runs.

Tashina Savage wonders if those that sent her fan mail actually exist, or if Joel is really good at creating fake personalities. Prove her wrong by emailing sundaysgirl@gmail.com