"... guided me through orientation, which lasted ten minutes, since there wasn't much to be oriented about." Somehow, my mind got stuck on that sentence. "Study the narrator's use of linguistic devices." I forced my eyes back to the task at hand, but my mind just wouldn't follow. "...not much to be oriented about." I knew this was supposed to be irony, a little funny, trying to elicit a chuckle from the reader who at the same time was supposed to feel for the poor protagonist who seemed to be forced into a rather undemanding job. Simplicity. Routine. Stability. What a tragedy. Poor guy.

I picked up my pen again, re-read the task one more time, my brain screaming, "Simplicity. Routine. Stability."

"Just write something, for God's sake," I admonished myself. "Good marks are your only ticket to simplicity, routine and stability." My pen hovered over the blank piece of paper in front of me. I looked around. Everyone was busy analysing this fine extract from the novel "Tender Bar", interpreting rhetorical devices, describing the protagonist's self-perception in great detail and counting the final number of words on their numerous pages. My blank page stared at me accusingly. "Not many words to count here," I thought self-deprecatingly.

Becoming a novelist equals success versus becoming a shop assistant which equals failure. Great. Another valuable lesson learned at school. Well, I wasn't about to become a famous novelist anytime soon. That much was clear. I stared at the pristine whiteness of the piece of paper on my desk. Christ, I would be overjoyed if I ever made it to a failure-rated shop assistant position. Even that seemed to be a pipe dream right now. "Zero words equals zero school degrees equals zero shop assistant jobs," I thought morosely. "You could always become a novelist. No need for a school degree here," my mind flashed back at me. Despite the dire straits I found myself in, I couldn't help a small chuckle. "Or a poet. Yes, of course, no need for prolificacy as a poet." Yes, I could totally see myself writing a four-liner a day.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

Zero words not even a poet make.

That much is true.

My hand scribbled this profound wisdom onto my exam paper on its own volition. As soon as it appeared there, I crossed it out with big, fat strokes of my black pen. Back to zero.

When I looked up, I found my teacher staring at me. I gave a half-smile and a shrug.

"Zero words – a teacher's dream. You should really write something. Anything. Make him work for his money," I thought. There were things I had to say. About my parents' divorce six months ago. My father's long-term unemployment and subsequent alcoholism. My friend's suicide. My own anxiety about my future. Unfortunately, nothing about Mr Moehringer's depressing first-job experience or his mother's great expectations. The only expectation my mother had of me was that I move out pronto, not only out of the flat, but also out of her life. Maybe if I became a rich, successful novelist, she would welcome me back with open arms. Other than that, she couldn't care less about me or my future life.

I dropped my pen, got up, grabbed my belongings and handed my zero words in. Then I fled into the rain.