Maybe I was wrong.

Today was supposed to be another edition of Gatsby's Favorites, written by the corgi himself, but I feel something deeper inside that really needs to come out. This month, I've been so dedicated to getting out the best content, planning ahead, blogging in advance, so I could focus on school and getting better grades and being a better person and student and employee and everything.
But today, I'm here in the moment. I've been typing this up and swallowing back the worry of hitting publish. Letting my friends and family and all of my readers know that I am very, very, very much afraid today. 
I'm in a fiction writing class here at school. We meet twice a week for an hour and fifteen minutes, and we edit stories, read our own works out loud, and talk about them with our teacher, who is usually straight to the point with us about how he feels.
I turned in a story earlier this week and read it aloud. 
I was proud. I was pleased. I took a jump. I hate reading aloud, but I did. I don't like to write in second person, but I did. I explored the idea of a man afraid of change dealing with the eventual death of his barber. And I was so, so, so excited. 
And my teacher shrugged, told me it was fine, it was okay, but it was boring. It was not much. It didn't rise above.
And I laughed it off. I smiled and shrugged and agreed that sure, yes, of course it was boring. My character died at the end, my main character was struggling with his obsessions and compulsions and with swallowing the idea that he might have to find a new barber. Boring. I'm boring. Nothing happened. 
And we moved on to the next writer, to the next story full of intricacies and plots and wonderfulness and drug addiction and mystery and murder and otherworldly dimensions.
But now those words are here, in my brain, in my soul, taking me over.
Am I just fine? Just okay? 
Writing has always been my release, my relief, my reprieve from the world and school and stress and anything that really drives me crazy. When I had boy problems, I wrote about it. When I fought with my family, I wrote about it. When I felt so alone and so collapsed, I wrote about it. And I soared, I felt better, I was in my own world controlled by my own pen and my own keystrokes. 
And because I always sought writing out when I had nothing else, I thought that meant I had a talent. I thought that meant I was a writer. Someone who has talent, skill. Someone who is meant to write. 
But am I just "fine"?
I'm sitting here at my computer typing out a new story, one to turn in for another grade and read out loud to our classmates. One I can write from wherever I want, one I can dig in deep to create. And that's hard, because I am torn between writing what my professor would give me an A for and writing what I want to write. 
Am I a bad writer? Am I not the kind of writer I thought I was? If I can't write a story and get an A without playing to my teacher's preferences, does that mean I'm not a writer? And if that's true, what does that mean for someone who always thought she could write a novel, could be a writer one day?
Do I have to kill someone, or let someone commit suicide, or give someone an eating disorder or an addiction or an abusive past or something terrible in order to be a writer? Or just to get an A?
And if I don't do this, if I don't write about these things that I don't understand and don't ever want to understand, am I not a writer?