A Writer in its Natural Habitat

It had been three days since I last typed a word. That word was “Ugh.” Technically, it was more than one word, but I typed it about fifty-three times.

I had taken 2 weeks of unpaid leave from my job at the Auntie Jo’s Confections plant. Every day, I would stand in front of a belt, as cookie after cookie, stamped with Auntie Jo’s brand, careened by me. Sometimes I would pick one out of the million that zoomed by my hands for sampling, but, mostly, I just snagged the broken or misshapen ones from the line.

It was mind-numbing work, but it left a lot of time to think while my hands were busy.

That’s when my most recent writing idea hit me.

I had been so consumed by the idea- charting out the plot in my head, creating sweeping character arcs- that I decided the best course of action was to take some time off work, and let this thing out of my head.

So, here I am. Alone in my studio apartment, except for my perpetually sleepy, one-eyed beagle, Wink, eating foods that are barely one step above a cup of microwaved noodles.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so frustrated in my life. Not when I lost the third grade spelling bee to “cologne” and its stupid silent ‘g’. Not when I missed the application date for a job working at the local bank. Not when I lost my savings of a measly $300 to an expensive shampoo selling pyramid scheme.

It is already three o’clock on Wednesday, and- nothing. It’s like my idea showed up to taunt me day in, day out, for weeks, just to take vacation right when I did.

So far, today, I have done 7 jumping jacks, laid on the ground with my legs up the wall, did word association with myself, and ate a caesar salad. Today is just about a total loss. But, I am determined to write just one sentence before I scrap the day altogether.

So, I made the decision to sit at my desk, pull out my laptop, and close my eyes in a silent plea for motivation. I moved to settle my fingertips on my keyboard, took a deep breath, and opened my eyes-

-Just in time to see a rectangular object sail through my open window in spectacular fashion, and strike me dead in the forehead.

Once I had regained my senses, I rubbed my forehead roughly, and reached down to pick up the object.

It was a small, black book. It was thin and bound in supple leather, the kind you want to rub your hands over again and again. But there were no distinguishing marks on it. I flipped open the cover, hearing the spine crack in the familiar way book spines do when they haven’t been opened more than maybe once or twice.

The lined pages were a pristine, crisp white, unmarked by ink or graphite. There was not even a name written in it.

There appeared to be no reason for this thing to have been shotputted through my window by what I can only assume was the captain of a track and field team.

I gave the book a withering glare, then set it on my desk.

I felt compelled to fill it. It was like my plot-line was peeking its head around the doorway of my subconscious, shyly waving me to come forward.

Sighing loudly as I dropped into my desk chair, I reached over to the lamp and switched it on. The book seemed to take on an odd sort of life- like it was waiting in suspense for something.

Without taking my eyes from it, I opened the top drawer of the desk, and grabbed my favorite gel pen. I thumbed its button rhythmically, clicking the pen tip in and out. Maybe a different medium would help me release my story into the world.

There was something about writing with ink on paper. Sure, typing on a computer is satisfying but it always felt a bit flighty to me.

When you write on paper, it requires more effort, more thought. You can't so easily erase a mistake on paper as on a computer screen. You can't take back your words so quickly.

I’ve found that when I write on paper, it's more honest. The effort involved in editing a hand-written story encourages you to examine every word, to weigh their worth individually, leaving more of your original “from-the-heart” stream of consciousness in your story than you would have if you could quickly delete a paragraph.

And so, with a deep breath, I put pen to paper.

--

The speed with which I had been writing for the past few days was dizzying. I had already drained two pens, and the stack of microwave meal trays at my elbow was a teetering trash mountain. When my brain was too exhausted to go on, I went to bed for a few hours and it took me at least half an hour to massage the cramp out of my hand so that it looked like less of a claw.

But none of the pain or discomfort mattered, because I was making incredible headway. I spent nearly all of Wednesday night creating a frantic story web in the last few pages of the notebook, and fleshing out the major events. I even began the first chapter the very next morning.

And now, here I stand on Sunday, three quarters of the way through the novel, dog-tired and bleary eyed, but more ecstatic than I have ever been. It’s as if I have finally found the purpose I had been searching for all these dreary years of my relatively short life. But, the most beautiful and hopeful part of all of this, was that even though I was so close to completing my story, this felt like only the beginning of an exciting adventure.

--

Today is the day. Today is the day that I finish my story. The heaviness of responsibility to bring it to it’s natural and dignified ending sat in my stomach like loose sand. Questions filled my head, trickling in like a leak in a wall, damaging my floors and my confidence.

Is the story too predictable? Too shallow? Too complicated? Too.. too.. Me?.

The last question hung on me like a lead vest, pulling me down and backward into self doubt. Would anybody but me like to read what I have written? Would this story matter to anyone?

So, I sat for a while and writhed internally in my uncertainty. My mind took me back to every shrill peal of laughter I had heard from my school mates. I listened to the echoes of every derisive snort from a coworker. I heard every stinging criticism from angry faceless commenters on websites where I had posted my writings.

I was drowning in the voices and sniggers and negativity, my heart and soul shriveling, when suddenly, I heard a voice whisper gently in the dark cavern of my skull:

“What if they’re wrong?”

I snapped my eyes open and looked out the window at all the people trudging by on the street. Some of them with heads bent to view their phones, some with arms full of groceries, others struggling to keep their umbrella from turning inside out on this stormy day, and I felt tears on my cheeks.

They weren’t tears of pain or anxiety, but of empathy. How many of those people had stories, paintings, songs, ideas of their own that had been squashed for fear that a piece of them they so desperately wanted to float out into the world, would be crushed with a wave of derision and rejection by those that didn’t understand them?

Wiping my tears away, I looked again at the journal and felt a steadily growing flicker of warmth and motivation grow within me.

I smiled and scribbled down the final paragraph to my story in my mysterious little notebook, realizing if the only person that ever read my story was me, it was worth it. It was the best gift I would ever give myself.

--

I was awake, but my eyes were still closed. I was in the frame of mind you exist in when you are figuring out what is real after a night of vivid, outlandish dreams.

I was stuck on the most peculiar one I had last night.

I was lying here in bed watching a very tall being with long silver/blue hair and iridescent skin in a very unflattering set of indigo robes, chirp excitedly to no-one I could see in a language that was fluid but completely unrecognizable to me. They had my notebook in one hand and two fingers of their other hand pressed to their temple. Their chattering was interrupted by Wink, who decided to grace the waking world with his presence and bark gruffly at the figure at the desk. Startled, they hurriedly stuffed the book into their robes, and slowly faded from view.

Very strange. Definitely a fever dream or something.

Or at least, I thought it was until I finally scooted myself lazily out of bed and onto my feet. I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of a slate grey piece of paper with gold lettering in the exact place I had left my notebook last night.

I tiptoed over to the desk, as if expecting someone to jump out at me, and picked up the piece of paper with a hammering heart.

It read:

“Salutations Being of Planet EHP-717,

We are writing to you from the halls of the Intergalactic Association for the Preservation and Study of Indigenous Species (Milky Way Division). We are very pleased to inform you: you have been accepted into the Indigenous Writing Initiative(IWI) through completion of our Black Book Program!

Your participation in this initiative will allow you to join the ranks of many other prolific and substantive writers from your planet, such as, Edgar Allen Poe, Jane Austen, Maya Angelou, and many others, as your works are archived in our library for the enjoyment and study of the creative works from your planet.

As is customary, you will receive the IWI Writers Stipend of 16,750 Federation Credits(FCs), which as determined by our associates on your planet, comes to a total of $625,818.52 in local currency. We hope this is sufficient to help you in your creative endeavors.

Please, let us know if you have any questions or concerns. An associate of the IAPSIS will contact you from our office, and will be able to assist you with the transfer of the funds, tax information, and any other area in which you may need assistance.

We look forward to working with you in the future and bid you a happy Mid-Year!

Best Regards,

…”

Did I concuss myself when I woke up?

I dropped my arm and stared blankly at the wall, trying to contain my shock and utter disbelief. I even allowed myself to be a little excited. But, what if this is some weird prank by the meathead who launched the notebook through my window?

I must have been standing there for a few minutes before I heard the wrapping at the door. There would be three quick knocks, then the sound of faint radio chatter and the quick chirping language that I heard in my dream last night.

I felt an odd thrill of adventure and wonder travel down my spine, shrugged, and decided to go with whatever was happening. Real or not, this is the coolest thing that has ever happened to me.

I walked to the front door of my tiny apartment, reached for the knob, and grinned foolishly.

I only wished that I’d had time to pick up and make something welcoming to drink. Extra terrestrial or no, every guest deserves a warm cup of tea.