WIP or "writer in progress"

I do not consider myself a writer. It's been a difficult trying to understand my poetic prose. I mean I can put sentences together but I would not consider them eloquent. They are kind of short, and cute, and stocky, and silly - like a minion.  I believe I've had some sort of writer's complex from experiences over the years. Or perhaps it's just brought me to where I am today. You be the judge. 

Case 1. My boss told me I wrote too much. Verbose was the word. What I would write in 3 paragraphs should be condensed to 3 sentences. I would always wonder why my CS emails took me 3x longer than most, and I'd end up having long-winded conversations with people I didn't know or care that much about. I managed to back up the queue by 200 emails because I was too focused on writing a good experience. I was taken off CS soon after that.

Oh, and no exclamation points! You sound like you're YELLING! 

Case 2. In college one of my professors said my writing was "awkward" and recommended that I just try harder. What does that even mean? They obviously didn't know me well. I'm an awkward human and trying harder would only bring forth more awkward.  

I received a B+ in that course. So close to an A but far enough that you couldn't say you nailed it. B could stand for you "you' can do better". 

Case 3. In high school, I paraphrased plenty and considered it "research".  I always felt that my summary of a book was far inferior to that of, well, others. I always struggled to grasp the true meaning of class reads. This was also around that time they had those suspected machines that scanned everyone's papers to investigate whether you plagiarized or not. I would hold my breath every time hoping they couldn't see that cliff notes had their dirty paws all over my papers. 

I never was caught, or at least never repremanded. Perhaps I wasn't the only one, or perhaps my teachers just didn't care. 

Case 4. 4th grade. We dressed up as our ancestors, or something like it. I had on traditional African garb, although all I can say is that my dad's side is from Florida. Seriously. That is what I tell people when people inquire about my race. Anyways we can discuss another time. Each student had to write about his or her experience as immigrants and the best entries would be published. Well, my poem was not chosen, but as a consolation prize I got to read mine aloud to the entire school at mass.

I think I ended up being the big winner for that one :) 

As you can see I've gotten caught up on the judgment (more like an opinion) people pass on my own writing. It's definitely not their fault, but it continues to be an insecurity of mine. But what I've found is that in order for them to understand, I should probably understand my own voice first. I am working on it, so as it stands I am a writer in progress.