Plip. Plop. The sound of rain dripping into a pan echoed in the quiet room. My still writing hand makes me far more aware of the rain than I wanted to. It feels almost impossible to clear my head to concentrate on my next book. It could be the pressure from my family, dwindling income, my rundown home or even my terrible lifestyle that's causing my writer's block, though that's no excuse for my terrible writing skills. My head hits the desk as that thought enters my mind and I tell myself to think more positively. After all, I did choose this career myself, so I should see it through to the end.
I take in a loud deep breath to disturb the false peace that had enveloped the room. Exhaling, I raise my head and put aside my current rough draft and begin to free write a new story. I don't expect this story to ever be read or published in any book, it's merely something I like to do as a personal pastime. This has become a habit of mine whenever I get stuck on a project, can't start a new one or am just overwhelmed with pressure. I write with no aim or goal in sight not fully comprehending what I'm even trying to do. Nothing except a blank mind writing whatever comes to it, that's the kind of brainstorming I have gotten used to. Though as I continued writing, something felt different. It felt a lot more fun and real, more alive than any other story I had written. The ambition I thought was lost just a few minutes ago, flared up inside me and gave me an excitement I hadn't had since I first started writing. Time flew as I let that passion take over and before I knew it, I had gone from 10 pages to well over 200. It was only when hunger and exhaustion finally hit me that my work came to a halt.
My mind still in a daze after writing for so long, I gave cursory glances at my work and realized that I put myself as the main character, even though I vowed to never do that again. It seemed as though my longing to be well known had manifested itself in my passionate writing session. I thought I was writing nothing in particular with how messy and shorthanded the writing was, but even in its illegibility, there was a theme and a story to it which revolved around me. I was in awe of my own work for the first time in my life and I wanted to do more with this idea. I wanted to break the promise I made to myself and show the whole world the beauty I had just found. I almost jumped for joy in spite of my fatigue. However, the rumbling of my stomach made me realize just how long I had been actively writing. Prying myself from my newest masterpiece, I wandered off in search of food as the sun began to dye the house red.
Not paying attention to where I was going, I almost ran straight into a wall. I stopped myself at the last minute, reminding myself that I was no longer staying with my parents. Continuing down the one hallway of the dumbbell shaped house I rented, I finally arrive at the only other room in the house. A mini-fridge sat there in what was a mix between a bedroom and a kitchen. Not wasting any time, I open the fridge and pull out one of my many handmade sandwiches I prepared beforehand. I unwrap the paper towel around it and chow down on the strawberry, ham and cheese sandwich all the while contemplating my new life here. I know I’m the one who suggested it, but out here in far too north Montana it is difficult to find a house to buy, let alone rent. Yet my parents were all for it when I asked to try it for a few months. I honestly don’t know what they were thinking, sometimes I just feel like they are overly kind when most of my other endeavors haven’t worked out the same way. They are far too generous to me, so much so that I feel bad for my younger siblings.
A yawn escapes my lips as I snap out of my reverie, having finished my sandwich. Drowsiness begins to envelop me as my body realizes just how hard I’ve worked it these past few days. However, I refuse to stop here and trudge my way back towards the study where my recent creation awaits. My eyes flutter as I try my hardest to stay awake in spite of the evident fatigue looming over me. In the end, I only make it to just outside the door before I slowly collapse onto the floor, having not enough rest to keep myself from passing out. As sleep overcame me, a twinge of regret came over me as I realized what I had just done. I knew that because I had written a story with myself as the protagonist that it was sure to come true the moment I woke up, for that is the curse I was born with. A curse that would soon cause the world to turn on its head.
