I Can’t Find The Right Word’s
A smooth surface supported my back; I opened my eyes to see the soft glow of a dim light. Now it was growing, the light increasing in intensity, showering my face in its warmth. Haphazardly, I staggered to my feet, the emptiness of the white box pressing in on me. It felt like I was in a corner of limbo; the empty walls faded into nothingness, and a sense of peace washed over me. Now what was I supposed to do? My pupils, tracing through the empty canvas, finally settled on a tiny, distant dot across the room; a speck of dust. I inched towards it. Walking then turned into pacing that ended in running. As I approached, the dot expanded, its edges blurring into a larger shape. The book sat there, spine cracked, pages filled with my annotations—it was my book again. Crisscrossed on the floor, I began flipping through the book’s brittle pages, the sound of the pages turning a quiet counterpoint to the stillness of the room. With a quiet rustle, my fingers traced the lines of the text, the cream-colored pages cool and smooth beneath their touch as I continued my search.
Page sounds
The sheer time and energy wasted on loathing this novel felt like a profound loss. And the detrimental effects this novel had on my life. I’ll be honest, I didn’t grasp the novel’s main idea anymore. A small, throaty chuckle rumbled from my chest, following my wide grin. My pupils fixated towards the cover. I lost myself in the whirlwind of newfound fame, the pressure to avoid becoming a one-hit wonder, and my determination to just enjoy it. Panic tightened its grip as I understood the inescapable truth; my escape had become my prison, leaving me trapped and suffocated. How pathetic am I? The weight of sorrow clouded my head, making me sink lower into the depression that had seeped into me. How do I come back from this?
As a shadow fell across the open pages of my book, I glanced up to see the boy from the library, the same boy who aspired to be a writer, and in that moment, I felt a profound sense of recognition, as if I were looking at myself. Still in the same clothes, but now holding a notebook and pen, a smile touched his lips as he stood over me. A proud, warm smile played on his lips; he was brimming with unspoken triumph.
“So, what are you reading?” The boy spouted.
“A book I made.”
The boy’s eyes lit up.
“I didn’t know you wrote books. That’s so cool. I hope when I get older I can be like you.” The boy applauded.
“Oh yeah, it’s not everyday you here about kids wanting to make books? But it’s not so easy. There is a lot of work, plus we can’t all make loads of money. It’s not like everyone can be a Stephen King.”
“Who?”
“Nevermind.”
“Well, I don’t care about any of that, and it’s not like I need lots of money. Wait a minute, maybe I do. Maybe just enough for two, no, four cases of juice boxes.”
His stubby fingers worked furiously, counting the dollars, a puzzled expression etched on the boy’s face. The quiet only punctuated the intensity of his calculation. Did I love writing this much as a child?
“So you dream of writing books?”
The boy nodded in excitement.
“Funny,” I mustered.
“What is?”
“I used to be the same way.”
“Really, that’s so cool. You must be having so much fun.”
For a minute, I paused. Writing isn’t fun anymore.
“No, I don’t have fun with it anymore.” I mumbled.
His face registered a puzzled expression, his brow furrowed, as if my words were alien to him.
My face gushed red. This is nonsense. Was this really me? Is it possible to alter my past if this were the case?
I lowered my head, noticing the rough texture of the ground beneath my cheek. I avoided my reflection, unable to meet my gaze. The sight of me was unbearable. Could I tell myself to give up? Could I change my past? Did I want to change it?
No, it was something that needed to be said.
“Yeah, after my first book, writing got really hard, and then I got mad and just couldn’t make a story good enough for everyone to be happy with.”
A heavy silence hung in the air for a minute or two. He said nothing. What were his thoughts? I raised my pupils, only to meet a gentle smile on his face. The boy sat next to me and mimicked me. Cutting through the pages of his notebook.
Page sounds
“Look…Look at this. This is a story about my family and dog, and where a bunch of superheros, going out to defeat bad people and saving the earth.”
A half smile grew, but in my head I kept shouting stop it, just give it up, it won’t always be like this.
Please don’t give me hope.
Before I could utter a word, his fingers clamped down on my shoulder, startling me.
A playful, excited smile expanded on his face.
“I think I know how I can help you, mister, and fix your writing.”
I laughed, “Oh really? Well then, what is the magic?”
He stood and walked away, his shoulders slumped, leaving me bewildered. But then he turned, his eyes wide, and spoke.
“I didn’t make this story for anyone….. I made it for me….”
A blinding flash of light leaves me disoriented before another door appears; the boy has vanished. The words, “I made it for me,” form silently on my lips, a private affirmation. A tear rolls down my cheek as my hand shakes uncontrollably; is it really that simple?
Only one way to find out. I get up and open the door.
