I'm so sleep-deprived. 

So if you read my lament over the guidelines a couple weeks ago, you'll know I'm taking Fiction writing this year. 

As it turns out, the first half of my first story's rough draft is due this weekend. So I sat down and wrote something today.

I then proceeded to upload it to my class's discussion so my classmates can comment on it. At this point, I don't think I'll be getting much good feedback. And by good, I mean actual criticism. *sighs*

I also printed it out and gave it to my younger sister to read. She bashed the heck out of it, so I feel a lot better.

Now, I'm posting it on here. Please, tell me it's awful. I need to hear that.

Also this is the first half. Part 2 should be coming in a couple weeks. 

The tried and true method of introducing oneself is the inner monologue, isn't that right? I mean, you see it everywhere in books, television, even movies. Well, here's mine. I'm twenty years old and I live in a lousy apartment with a roommate and an old cat to prevent me from dying of loneliness. I also run a story business. That's right, I sell stories. Are you a struggling writer down on your luck and need a good kick in the pants to keep you going? Look no further, because here's your chance to get published quick. I sell characters, plots, and worlds. Heck, I even sell entire books ready for submission.

Oh right, this is supposed to be a story about how I got into this place. Sorry, I got carried away there. It all began last week...wait that's too cliché.

On a dark and stormy...wait, it wasn't even raining.

Okay, fine. I'll be boring. Last week, I was fired from the only job I ever had. Sure, it wasn't a great job, but it payed the bills and fed Mr. Muta. He likes his special canned food and refuses to eat anything else. That cat food company must make a fortune.

When the company sent me home, I had no idea what to do with myself. My rent was due next month so I had to find another job, but what? Cooking, building and the like were beyond my meager abilities. The only thing I was decent at was...writing.

That's when it hit me. Or rather, a can of cat food hit me. Mr. Muta hadn't eaten yet.

I could help struggling writers with their work and keep my apartment. The only issue was, I wasn't sure if it was legal or not. You couldn't be too sure in today's publishing world...not that I kept up with that stuff or anything.

But I started my business anyway. Since I didn't have a garage, it began in my kitchen. Not the most exciting of places to begin one's journey, but I managed. My roommate, Hubert, helped me most evenings and we spent the night typing up whatever the heck we could think of.

A fantasy novel with a destined one to save the entire world? Yep.

A classic romance where a guy meets a girl and they instantly fall in love without any real conflict? Yep.

Whatever tired old clichés you can think of, we wrote. Hubert was the best at character creation though. He could whip out five characters in three minutes, just like that.

"It's easy, Derek," he said one evening, "You just take the character type, like the hero, slap some decent qualities on him, and make him practically perfect. Amateur writers eat this stuff up."

"Brilliant," I said, "We'll have cash to spend in no time. Now, how are we going to get these boxes out of here?"

One downside of this business was that we went through a ton of paper. Hubert didn't want to risk sending these goods via email. I wasn't as sure, but he was the tech guy, so I figured we'd turn out all right.

One afternoon, however, I heard someone try to ring our doorbell (it broke after Hubert tried to "fix" it). When that failed, the visitor pounded on the thin wooden door so hard, he knocked the apartment number off. I, blissfully unaware of my doom, answered.

"Derek Gikkingen?" A uniformed officer stood outside.

I nodded. What the heck was an officer doing here? Was my new job illegal? I was only joking before...

"You're under arrest."