I am an avid writer, having started writing short stories as early as middle school. I particularly enjoy writing about subjects that are horrifying or humorous, especially when you mix them together and get a story that gives you goosebumps one moment and a fit of giggles the next. Ultimately, though, what I strive to represent most in my writing is a good sense of flow and action. Anyone can write, but it takes skill to ensure that any reader can understand what is going on at all times ... while keeping them engaged with the writing, too.
As for the quality of my writing, I'll leave that up for you to judge. Here's a short snippet of something I worked on in the past — make of it what you will.
One late morning, Roy awoke and found himself to be a bug in the shape of a man.
In that state of drowsy confusion brought on by the transition between unconsciousness and consciousness, he almost didn't notice the change. At first, the only thing he did notice was the light streaming in through his window, which appeared as a large splotch in the center of his fuzzy vision. In his mind, something was telling him that light = morning, and that morning meant he had to get up. For a moment, he couldn't understand why he would ever want to do this — after all, he was currently enveloped in the warmth and comfort of his bedsheets — but then he remembered he had "obligations" to get to.
So, Roy sat up, extricated himself from his covers with an unusual but not alarming amount of difficulty, and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. While scratching an itch on his side, he raised his other arm to rub the sleep out of his eyes. To Roy's surprise, his eyes felt much more stiff than usual. In fact, his entire body felt more stiff than usual. He tried to blink away his blurry vision, only for nothing to happen. Huh.
Something was definitely odd. Roy rested his hands on the side of the bed and pondered for a second. By now, his brain was beginning to wake up, but his thoughts were being interrupted because something was incessantly rubbing against his side. It turned out to be ... his right hand? But wait, wasn't his right hand on the bed?
Yes, it was. Roy brought the offending extremity in front of his eyes. For a brief moment it was blurry and doubled, as if Roy were drunk. Then, Roy's eyes finally focused, and he could see that, yes, he really did have two right hands! They seemed spindlier than usual. Why were his hands so warped, so blackened, and so stiff? Roy flexed both of his right thumbs, one after the other, which was both an extremely familiar and strangely alien sensation. Slowly, it began to dawn on him that things were very different from as he remembered them.
Roy stumbled across his room to his bathroom, through the open door, and up to the sink. He tried to get a look at himself in the mirror, but it seemed to be reflecting a magnified image of a fly, instead of Roy's familiar mug. Roy looked around the room for any insect that could be causing the odd reflection, but found none. It was only when he reached out to adjust the mirror and the fly did so too that realization dawned on him.
There were a multitude of thoughts Roy could have had in that moment. He could have despaired, he could have been shocked, he could have snapped and gone insane right then and there. For some reason, though, his actual thought, "Isn't there a famous book about a guy who wakes up as a bug?" didn't seem ... appropriate.