Fiction?

I want to start off by saying I’m not a comedian; I’m a writer. And this is a fiction piece, so please read it as such.

Our tale begins on a normal day as most unordinary stories do. School was the number one priority because unlike the tower of Babel, I’m not going to just start speaking in fluent Spanish. Yes; “I” or me. I’m your protangonist. You may be thinking, the audacity of her to think of herself intriguing enough to play the lead! To that I say, do remember, dear reader, this is a work of fiction. For all you know, the character I’m portraying is nothing like myself! ( But for your sake, I’ll let you know that that isn’t the case.) I’m me and me is the same as “I” as I always am. And the day of our beginning has now begun, so let's continue.

After I twist my tongue in an ugly attempt at the foreign language, I grab my gear and head to town. Exciting right? No, not really. People go to town everyday, and my trip to town was no different. Errands consisting of Walmart, Goodwill, and a visit to the boutique on the corner of Main Street was all the adventure I was getting. The excitement of my day was found at the boutique my sister manages. Dropping by to snag her attention momentarily, my sister ( in return ) steals all of mine. She brings to my attention a writing contest. This writing contest to be more specific. I was hit with nerves and a realistic perspective that I’d be playing the host game and paying you ten dollars to tell me my work wasn’t good enough, which I already knew. But my attention had been caught and hope convinced me otherwise.

Basic outline: money and a little black book. So vague it sets you up for magic! My mind became flooded with idea after idea! On the drive home I narrowed down my thoughts to form the outlines of a few different stories. Settling myself, I prayed, inhaled, and I began. I’ve never been good at short stories, feeling a constant dissatisfaction that a character was gypped for a few pages instead of a biography. Following this train of thought, I wrote titles from ‘Moon Landing’ to ‘Dancing In Ashes’ with the caboose of ‘An Honest Fool’. All of which weren’t even in the same conga line of my standers. Eventually I gave up-ish. My giving up plan turned out to be the most original idea of all! Drumroll! This. The excitement of a new challenge, followed by the character’s disappointment with every effort they make, ending with a plot twist. Okay! So it’s not my best work!

To be honest, I have a love hate relationship with writing. I feel a need or constant desire for it, yet a constant dissatisfaction in her. Never good enough. No. Never great enough. I’ve cornered myself in this place of only writing if it’s exceptional. And if I write and it falls short in any way, it gets shoved into the category of ‘a waste of my time.’ I find that this is all that is; another instance of wasted time. But this is a fiction. Meaning my work could be to the world as a Mona Lisa intrigued generations with her mystery if that’s what I want it to be.

Curtains. Set. Fiction.

A game of battleship with stories as navy ships. Every combination thinned the herd of stories til there was a lone survivor. The war ended with a giving up plan. Yes, it’s as dumb as it sounds. Regardless I sent it in with a surprising amount of optimism. The waiting game turned months to years and days to weeks.

Email had become my new most used app; and I swear I prayed that I’d forget about the whole ordeal and settle with the fact that I would have been just as productive to shred my ten dollars or for dramatic effect, burn it. And so I did just that. Not burn another ten dollars! Forget about it. I went back to my normal days being normal days. And returning to writing as a pleasant way to spend my time, with a vague hope in the back of my mind that I could use it to make something of myself.

The deadline was March second which came and went with no weight in my mind. *wink wink*. I’m lying to you. Of course I thought about the competition! The bragging rights, the twenty-thousand dollars, the satisfaction, but mostly a reassurance to inspire a writer's dying passion. Everyday I’d check my email only to realize ( when I only received something pointless ) that I was holding my breath. I told my family that I honestly didn’t even think about the competition, but in the back of my mind it wouldn’t die until I had an answer. And this made me realize I had hope. A hope founded in stupid ambition and a fairy tale of winning a competition I wasn’t cut out for. But it was a fiction piece. And in order for it to be fiction, it has to be fake.

I woke up, as one usually does in the morning. I ignored my phone until nine. With no sense of urgency or excitement, I see a tick mark, inside a little red dot, sitting like humpty dumpty over my email app. Thinking it to be nothing more than an annoying notification to get rid of, I click and quickly read the title. ‘ Little Black Book. Vocal Media.’ I experienced both tachycardia and a heart attack simultaneously. I know… impressive. I inhaled and slowly read the paragraph.

I’d won. Impossible! I read over the neatly typed message a thousand times before accepting my victory. Like any boxer in the ring, I waited until the referee physically pulled me away from my knocked out opponent to claim my triumph. I stared, literally jaw dropped at the phone screen. And for a writer, I found myself embarrassingly at a loss for words. I kinda screamed and cheered; whatever it was, it didn’t sound pleasant. I prayed and cried and laughed all at the same time! I felt proud. Not arrogant! Just proud. This would be a moment I’d tell my kids about. A point of hope to look back to. I’d done it; proven my writing was better than a kid who liked telling fantasies. So vague it’s setting you up for magic right? Well I’m not a magician, I’m a writer. And this is a fiction. And this is a fiction?