Ellen sat in
her chair, staring at her laptop screen, waiting for inspiration to hit her.
She knew how this was supposed to work. She was supposed to sit her butt in a
chair and type. Type a thousand words every day is rule number one. Write for
fun is rule number two. Rule number three is to just start writing, no matter
what. Just start typing or moving a pen across the page and see what happens.
Didn't she learn that in her writing class in high school? In college? Online?
The rules seem so simple.
So why was she
wasting her time today with the same exercise she has tried all week? What
would be different today? Every day, for the last six days, she had sat in her
room at the end of the day, waiting for inspiration. One day, she just started
typing and ended up with a jumbled mess of letters. She deleted them. They were
nonsense, not even words. The next day, she wrote random words, hoping her
subconscious would fill in the blanks. Nothing.
Each day, she
tried something new. One day, she decided to write something she was grateful
for. Another day, something positive. She just did not like what came up. She
didn't like what she had to show for her efforts. Was she doing something
wrong?
The screen just
stared back at her. The white glare of its blank screen tormented her, teased
her, reminded her of her failure to write anything. She glared back at it,
determined to show it who was boss. Her fingers splayed over the keys, each
digit in its proper place. She learned to type a long time ago so that she
could write papers faster. No two-finger typing for her!
Her fingers lay
upon the keys and tapped gently. Nothing came to mind. What was she supposed to
do? Why was it that all day long, she would think about things to write about,
feel the inspiration, but the moment she sat down nothing happened?
Ellen jumped up
from her chair and paced her room. The crazy thing was, as a teenager, she used
to draw and write in notebooks every day. It wasn't even her idea, but her best
friend's. Her friend was an amazing artist, and she would draw these great
stories. Ellen decided that it would be fun and just bought a few notebooks and
began to draw and write her own stories. Nothing amazing. She didn't have the
artistic talents of her friend, but she enjoyed the process. She was never at a
loss for subject matter or inspiration and she carried her notebook with her
just in case inspiration struck her. It went with her to school and home and
when she went to a friend's house.
In high school,
her English teacher encouraged her to write. Her teacher never held back criticism
but was always positive and supportive. Yet, Ellen remained insecure of her own
work. Was she any good? She would hide her work in a drawer, hoping her parents
would respect her privacy. Eventually, her father gave her a computer for her
papers at school. She used the computer to do her schoolwork and, also, to
write stories. Stories she never finished, just like her notebook
stories.
When she got to
college, she took the computer with her. She wrote more unfinished tales.
Eventually, the computer ended up back at her parents' house and in her
father's care. He called her one day, a rarity. "Honey, I found all these
files on your computer. I thought they were for your writing class, but none of
them are finished," he told her.
Ellen was
momentarily horrified. Should she be embarrassed? Should she be livid that he
violated her privacy? "Did you read them?" she asked him, still
unsure how to react. For the moment, she was calm, realizing her father seemed
curious.
"I read a
few," he offered her. "Just enough to see what they were about."
He paused and Ellen wondered if he would comment on her work. Would he like it?
Would he hate it? Would he make fun of her sad efforts to write?
"Oh,"
was all she could offer. "What did you think?" This was so important
to Ellen. Why? She had spent so much time writing and hiding her work. Why now
did she care? Perhaps, because he had taken some of the choice away from her.
He didn't call and ask her if he could read them. He just read them to see if
they were... What? Worthy to keep? Necessary files? Important files?
"They were
interesting, but none are finished," he told her. His tone was even and
thoughtful. No judgement. Just like her father, really. He was always careful
to not judge, but to ask questions. "I was hoping you might want to finish
them. I'd like to read them."
What?! He wanted
to read them? Ellen was now unsure what to feel. Her heart was racing. Her mind
was curious. What would he think? What might her mother think? No, best not to
go there. But what would her father think? And friends? What if she let a few
of them read her work? Of course, she would have to finish something first!
"I don't know," she finally answered her father. "I think I lost
interest. I get ideas to start and then I don't know how to finish
it."
Her father was
silent a moment. "Perhaps," he began, finally. "I should save
these for you, and you can come back to them when you're ready."
"Sure.
Thanks," Ellen said.
The conversation
was years old, but still fresh in her mind. Ellen remembered hanging up the
phone and going right to her new computer and typing up the start of a story. A
story she never finished. She looked back over to her laptop. The screen still
glared white back at her, the screen empty, waiting for her.
What if she wrote
about that? About her father's faith in her, in his interest? What if she wrote
a story about his curiosity in her work and his lack of judgement? It was a
strange phone call, but it was not dramatic or tense. Not really. The only tension
came from herself.
Ellen returned to
her chair at her desk and looked at the blank white screen. It did not seem to
be glaring at her anymore. Her fingers rested upon the keys of the keyboard.
She took a deep breath, inhaling for several seconds and then exhaling all her
fears and doubts. She closed her eyes and repeated that deep breath in and that
long exhale out. Suddenly, her fingers began to move, and a story began to
unfold upon the screen.
- Andrea Miller ( 02/15/2021 )
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