I got up from the kitchen table one more time, leaving the
white screen to itself. I thought about going out for coffee but decided I
should just make it myself. Save the money. Who knew if this would work out
anyway. I would probably end up selling insurance for the rest of my lousy
life.
I went back to the computer, coffee-less. “What do I know
about the writing life?” I thought to myself.
I got up again. The wooden stool is so uncomfortable, maybe
more so than the blank screen.
The thought of going back to work made me sit back down. As
painful as it was, it was still better than florescent lights and sales
pitches.
Surrounded by books and magazine articles written by other
people, I searched for inspiration. I read through some old pieces I had written
over the years, embarrassed.
Staring down at the little oak table, I studied the lines in
the wood; the way they flowed seamlessly through the planks, making mesmerizing
designs. I thought about the words I wanted to write, how they would flow like
those lines, making intoxicating images in the mind.
I put my hands on the keyboard and lightly tapped, wondering
were to begin. Did I really want to do this? Did I really want to take this on?
What if I couldn’t finish the project? What if this story was too much to
follow through on?
The questions taunted me more than the blinking curser on
the screen.
I got up again. Pacing the floor from room to room, I
decided, to hell with it, I went out for coffee.
The mile long drive seemed longer than usual and all the
cars moved at a glacial pace. Somehow the coffee shop I went to every morning
seemed unfamiliar now.
“Hey! You must be off today. I love the sweatshirt!” The
barista was surprised to see me in so late. Yes I’m off today, yes I’ll take my
regular.
Part of me wondered if I should order something else now to
signify a new beginning, something different, something somehow unrelated to
every other day of my life up until today.
A wave of panic suddenly took over me. I pulled the last
four one dollar bills out of my purse and hoped the next time I wanted something
there would be more money coming from… somewhere.
The ride home was excruciatingly slow. I spent the whole
time reprimanding myself for throwing away money and wasting precious minutes.
How can I make a living off words I cannot write, buying coffee I cannot
afford, using gas I do not have?
My mother’s voice rang in my ears about being wasteful.
I sat down and willed myself to write what ended up being
the worst 600 words I have ever written. But it was written and it was
movement. Movement in a direction I had wanted to take for a long time.
Drinking that coffee, re-reading my agonizingly
amateur work, I knew I had a long road ahead of me. But I smiled. I smiled at
the journey before me, knowing that it was exactly where I wanted to be. No,
where I NEEDED to be. Where I was meant to be.
