Spoiler! :
Writing. Some love it, and some hate it. Although at some point I guess we all loathe it. I myself had once wished that I would never again have to lay my eyes upon another piece of work that I had written. As my life passes slowly before my eyes, I get more and more lonely without the company of the forever lost characters that I had brought to life. It’s odd, isn’t it? Completely deserting something that a minute ago you had thought was extremely important? Yeah, well, that’s how life works sometimes.
So, without further ado, I am going to stare dramatically into the middle-ground, and tell you the story of how I began to love writing again.
~***~
I stare blankly at the bright computer screen, pulled up is Microsoft Word. The little writing thing blinks. On. Off. On. Off, and so forth. I do not know how much time has passed, but I get tired of staring at a blank page. So I turn it off. That is my life, a blank page. There is yet more to be written, but the question is…..what?
As I get up from the chair I softly murmur, “Humbug. Writing is a humbug.”
My most recent love, writing, had just left my life. Died, and every word I have ever written along with it. I do not believe in “inner critics” (they are also a humbug). No I believe that I just woke up one day, and killed writing. I lost all love for it.
So, with writing dead and my loneliness still lingering, I walk begrudgingly in to the kitchen. Where I start making myself a piping-hot bowl-o’- ramen. Beef-flavored.
I am so excited, in fact, I tip over the bowl and scorching broth rolls down my throat. Immediately, I cough and sputter, as if the fact that it’s really hot is some big surprise to me. Oh well. So with my throat successfully burnt I decide to sit down in one of my “technologically advanced” armchairs. Yes, by that I mean it has cup holders.
I feel like a rebel today, so decide to recline the chair to a forty-five degree angle. No more, no less. I like to live dangerously. And it’s getting late, close to midnight. I close my eyes for no more than about five minutes when I hear the door to the outside foyer open.
My eyes flash open and I jump up quick-as a-wink. Within ten seconds I triple-lock the door, adding five heavy-duty titanium padlocks for good measure (I am always prepared: strange things seem to happen to me quite often).
I leap, leap, leap straight into my armchair (with the cup holders). I sit in the dark quietly for a few moments. Only a few. I am just about to breathe a huge sigh of relief, but the sound of chains being dragged across the floor just outside my front door leaves me breathless. It goes on for what seems like forever, the sounds growing louder. And louder. And closer. And closer. Until, finally, it stops.
~***~
I sit rigid in my armchair. And don’t even think about the cup holders. I want to yell out, want to tell whatever it is to leave me alone, but my throat is parched. So I say nothing. I watch, eyes wide with horror, as the locks, one-by-one, eerily become undone. Eventually there is only one padlock left, but it has not been broken. Ha-ha! I knew it was a good idea to get those! I just knew it!
But my victory is short-lived. Because, with a loud BANG! The door is smashed to bits and the last lock falls to the floor. I raise my eyes steadily and stare in shock at the entity before me.
I gasp dramatically as I say, “Oh my goshness! It’s…its…wait; who…or what…are you exactly?”
The being stands completely still; but yet, it still seems to be moving mysteriously. Slowly, it begins to move into the light. That’s right, I said it. Why? Because it looks almost human, but it has no skin or anything. Instead, it’s made from millions of jumbled letters. The letters flow across the figure simultaneously. It is like they are dancing, forming words and stories during the endless samba across its body.
Then my eyes come across a phrase that forms where the mouth should be: I am Writing.
“You’re…Writing?” I say, completely confused.
Another phrase forms: My Name.
“Oh, so your name is Writing. I understand now, “ I say.
Then another phrase appears: You killed me.
“How could I have killed you?!” I exclaim pinching myself. This has to be a dream. It just has to be.
Ignoring what I said completely, it “speaks” again: Three ideas. Past. Present. Future. When the music plays….
I don’t dare say anything, so as quick as possible I grab my bowl-o’-ramen and throw it right at the being. Just as the steaming bowl hits, it dissipates into millions of letters. And then is gone.
“Well, that was odd,” I say aloud as I maneuver towards the bed. Constantly the nine words run through my mind: Three ideas. Past. Present. Future. When the music plays….
Then my eyelids slowly start to drop, and I give in to sleep.
~***~
The song “American Idiot” by Green Day plays loudly all around me as I fall out of bed. Then it stops suddenly.
I close my eyes, figuring that nothing at all abnormal would happen to me tonight. I am right on that thin line between the conscious and the unconscious worlds until I feel an extremely heavy weight on my legs. This violently jolts me awake and my eyes flash open, glaring at whoever it is that has interrupted my “beauty sleep.” It takes awhile until I finally realize what it is that lies across me. A tiger. Not just any tiger, no: this is Sasha.
~***~
Sasha, the tiger who was, for so long, my childhood companion. I had written her into being as a third-grader when I created a fictional book about her: “The Life of Sasha.” It was very awful by my current standards. But, then again, so is most writing by a third-grader. But at the time I was extremely proud of myself. When Writing said I would be visited by three ideas I had no idea it meant this.
After staring dumbly at her for awhile, I notice that she too has words jumbled across her entire body. I tentatively reach out and run my hands across her fur. As I do, the words shift and change, forming themselves into the many paragraphs I’d written about her. As my fingers reach the tip of her tail, the entire book is spread across her pelt. “My God,” I whisper, “You really are real.”
“Why of course I am. You created me,” she replies.
I’m surprised that she speaks. Then I remember: I had given her a voice in the story. Therefore, she could talk. So I reply by saying, “Okay.”
“I am going to take you through your writing past,” she says. “Grab onto my tail.”
Taking a moment to realize she doesn’t mean her tale, I do as I’m told (I’m quite obedient). Quick-as-a-wink I am pulled somewhere else, and I see myself sitting on a stool in the Montessori Academy building: I am writing.
“Go on,” Sasha purrs, “go see.”
“But…she…I mean I…No ! She will see me…I mean her…” I stutter out.
“No, you will not be seen. We can see them, but we remain unseen,” she says calmly.
“Alright,” I say as I slowly sneak behind and watch my eight year-old self is in the process of writing “The Life of Sasha.” I turn to the great tigress and she nods her head.
The nine year-old version of my friend Kaija comes up and says, “Hey Maya! Still writing your tiger book? You should write one about penguins. I love penguins!”
“Ha-ha. Sure Kaija. I don’t know though, I may want to continue Sasha’s story first. I love tigers,” I say as I hurriedly get back to work.
“Okay,” Kaija replies. “Maybe I’ll write a book,” she says as she walks off. I notice the “real” Sasha moving towards me regally.
“Grab my tail. It is time to leave this place,” Sasha says.
I take hold without another word and watch the scene dissipate, expand and change into something new.
~***~
As the scene comes into focus before me, I see my ten year-old self writing poetry. I inch closer, and notice she is writing the haiku that everyone loved: “Tiger eyes, shining bright in the deep darkness of the night.” I breathe a sigh of remembrance. It is one of my favorite things that I’ve written.
Then I see myself rip the piece of paper to shreds. I feel hurt, as though my heart has just dropped to the bottom of my stomach. I turn my head away as I grab Sasha’s tail. “One more stop,” she murmurs.
~***~
I open my eyes to find myself in the Academy building again. Then I spot it on a nearby table: a green folder with a picture of a tiger glued crudely to the front, with the words “The Life of Sasha” written above it in marker. I know that in that folder is 56 typed pages of the book I had poured my heart and soul into day after day. It brings a smile to my lips even now.
I watch my proud eight year-old self run up to the (evil) teacher Miss Dawn, brimming with enthusiasm and joy. I quickly hand her the folder as I say, “Miss Dawn! I finally finished my book!”
“Okay, let’s see…..” she says as she opens it up and begins to read. I see myself watching with the biggest smile. Thirty seconds later, Miss Dawn puts down the folder and simply says, in her high-pitched voice, “Oh, that’s no good.”
The smile instantly vanishes and my young face tears-up. I look like I’d been brutally kicked in the face by Jackie Chan. I grab the folder, calmly walk to a table, and read over my story as my tear drops stain the pages.
I feel my current self actually start to cry as well. I scream, “Sasha! Take me away from this place!” I turn to grab her tail, but she pulls away. Smiling her feline smile, as she disappears into air. And I am left alone in the darkness.
~***~
I wake up as “American Idiot” plays loudly again, then stops. This time I know what to expect, so I quickly jump out of bed and look around for what awaits me next. Then I see it: a light turned-on behind the closed door to my…bathroom? No…it’s my living room. I think.
I walk up slowly and open the door. Immediately I am blinded by a bright light, and I see a car. A broken-down blue Toyota to be exact. And standing next to it is a teenage girl: dark brown hair, pale grey eyes, and casually-fitting clothes. She looks somehow transparent, unfinished. Then I know who it is: “Arienne,” I whisper.
“Yep, that’s my name, don’t wear it out,” she says. “And you, Maya are an idiot!” She plops onto the sofa and kicks her feet up.
“What do you mean by that,” I say.
“You never finished me!” she screams, deeply hurt.
“I’m sorry !” I say. “I couldn’t finish that book. You got boring.”
“Whatever,” she says. “Don’t finish a book, don’t finish me,” she hums.
I ignore her. By the way, I formed the character of Arienne after myself. I gave her my rudeness and my sarcasm. I know—bad combination.
“So do I have to grab your tail or something?” I ask.
“Heck no—keep your hands off the merchandise,” she says as she gets up and hops into the car. “In the car.” She rolls her eyes.
I get into the passenger seat. She starts it up and drives right into the wall! I’m prepared to find myself dead, but there’s no impact. Instead, we have appeared somewhere else….
~***~
I open my eyes, I thought for sure we were about to crash. Guess not. I notice that I am in my house, and I watch another “me” sitting at the computer writing.
It seems as though I am watching myself write forever, and maybe I am. But the spell is broken when I hear myself say, “This book is so boring, I give up!”
“Remember this? When you scrapped my story? Leaving me yet to be finished?” Arienne says with an angry gleam in her eye.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I remember.” Then I notice that somehow we are in the car again. Maybe we never really left. Arienne revs the engine, which sounds like a mocking tone of disgust or frustration to me. Then we’re off.
We pull into Mrs. Reid’s room at Meyer Middle School, and I am watching myself as I write this autobiography. Then the other me turns around, stops writing, and the story shortly pauses.
~***~
“What are you doing here spying on me?” the other Maya says.
I turn to Arienne and ask, “I thought we wouldn’t be seen?”
“Sure, but she is the almighty writer: she sees all!” Arienne says.
“You both had better leave, or else I’ll stop right now and you’ll never be finished!” says the other me. I have a feeling she’s serious. Then again, she may not be. I am a very unpredictable person, so who knows. Arienne, though, doesn’t want to take any chances, so she fires the engine and we get away—before I get to ask her what happens at the end of story!
~***~
Arienne pulls into a dark, wooded area and hops out of the car. I follow. She stands up tall and straight as she takes out two pencils from her pocket.
“You must beware of these two, Maya,” she says, holding up the pencils. “They are Procrastination and Bad Grammar.”
“Wh-what?” I ask, thoroughly confused.
“As a writer you must watch out for these two. Always,“ says Arienne. Then she suddenly starts laughing hysterically as she gets into the car and drives away without me. Left alone again.
I frantically turn round and around, and notice I’m still lost in the woods. Why won’t I wake up?
~***~
Fear creeps into me steadily. I look around and even pinch myself in the constant want of waking up. Then, just out of the corner of my eye I see a shadowy figure, silhouetted mysteriously against the moon. I stand still and watch for awhile, until it raises its arm and motions for me to come forward. Slowly and cautiously, I walk forward.
As I step closer I realize that it is abnormally tall. Great. Even more reason to be fearful of this creature.
“Excuse me,” I say, “you wouldn’t happen to be Writing Future would you?”
It nods very precisely. Awesome, it’s mute. Well, at least it understands, right? All of a sudden, it turns away and starts walking in the opposite direction. I really have no choice but to follow.
~***~
The scene shifts before us as we walk. Again I see myself, this time sitting in front of a computer screen. The shadow points an elongated finger. As if telling me to go and look. So I do.
I peer over the shoulder of my future self, see a Word document pulled up. As I look at my future face, I appear so much older, and my eyes are tired and defeated. I turn my attention back to the Word document—to the bottom of the screen to be exact. There it is: the word count at the bottom of the screen, tallying 200,015 words. I get so excited and happy. I’ve finally written a novel! Hip-hip-hoorah! Then, as suddenly as the realization hits me, I see my future self press “Delete” and it goes down to: 0 words.
Heartbroken, I watch this sad self get out off the chair and mutter softly, “No good. It’s no good.”
~***~
We turn from the depressing scene. And a new one forms in its wake. I don’t know why, but this one strikes me as even more disturbing. It is dark, completely pitch black, and the only sources of light are me and, surprisingly, two other versions of me. Then I realize that it’s just one of me, looking at her reflection in a mirror.
Well, this is when things get weird. So if you are weirded-out easily then this is not for you. Therefore, you should stop reading, although I would greatly appreciate it if you continued. But that is your choice. Don’t worry, I won’t tell the world how completely lame you are for not even finishing a young girl’s autobiography.
Now, where was I?
At this point, the apparition of me in the mirror literally walks out of the mirror. I watch as these two images of myself begin to argue. The one that emerged from the mirror says, “You’re no good! You can’t write! You are worthless! Better me than you!” Then an impossible idea pops into my head: it seems ridiculous, but I think I’m watching myself argue with my inner critic! See? I told you I was nuts (but oh, how true).
The argument between the two escalates dramatically. There is some pushing and hitting, then the Inner Critic shoves the other me to the ground and takes out a knife. It is not an ordinary knife; it is completely made out of words and letters, constantly shifting and changing. I see the terror on the face of my poor future self as words like “worthless” and “no good” flash across the blade of the knife. My Inner Critic draws ever closer as the other me lays on the ground, helpless.
She chants the words as they move across the blade, raising the knife high above her head as the exclamation mark at its tip shines menacingly. I want nothing more than to go and help her, but I know that I can’t. As sadness and defeat settle in the knife descends, and the future me explodes and vanishes into a hail of letters. Eventually, they disappear also. I stand shocked, can barely believe what I just saw. It takes me awhile to realize, but I had just been murdered by my Inner Critic.
~***~
I turn away from the devastating scene, and again start walking side-by-side with Writing Future.
We end up somewhere completely different from anything I expected: a McDonald’s. the disgusting smell of greasy, fat-fried food reaches my nostrils. It makes me want to vomit right there on the spot. The shadow again raises its elongated finger, and my head follows its direction. I want to burst out in tears at what I see. It is so awful, so terrible, and so…just plain unfortunate. There I am, a lifeless shell, flipping burgers at McDonald’s.
I fall to my knees and dramatically yell, “Noooooooooooo!” and keep yelling for a long time until the scene fades. And I awaken in my bed.
~***~
My eyes flash open fast as I look myself up and down. No McDonald’s uniform! I get up and start dancing in my room for no apparent reason. I do the worm, the jig, and whatever other crazy dance you can think of.
I pop my head out the window and see a young boy skipping past. “Hey there!” I say. “Can you run off to the nearest Best Buy and pick me up an amazing laptop?”
“Stranger-danger!” the kid yells, and runs off.
“Oh well,” I say aloud, so used to having some strange spirit or warped version of myself nearby. “I’ll go out later today and get one myself.” I slip into my technologically-advanced armchair and recount last night’s events with a smile. I love writing. I really do.
I now am forever marked as a writer. I look at my arms as letters and words flash across my skin. They flow in and out of each other creating words that I had written. This is when I see it, a small insignificant phrase on the inside of my palm: I am Maya, the writer.
~***~
Writing. Some love it, and some hate it. Although, at some point I guess we all loathe it. I myself had once wished that I would never again have to lay my eyes upon another word that I had written. Oh, and how utterly wrong I was.
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