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in all honesty

based on a very true story

By Gracie Evans Published 3 years ago 8 min read
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in all honesty
Photo by Alex Vasey on Unsplash

It was well past 3:00 but my thoughts were preventing me from sleeping. They weren’t profound or necessarily important thoughts, but they were constant. I rolled over and grabbed my phone to do something to occupy my mind. I knew no matter what I was going to be tired in the morning so I might as well enjoy my night. I scrolled mindlessly on my social media platforms, barely paying attention to anything I read. My eyelids felt heavy and I began to drift off. My phone began slipping from my grasp, until I saw it, in big bold letters an ad saying

“$20 000 grand prize to the best short story”

“No way” I thought

I was an avid writer back in high school, winning whatever competitions my mundane hometown would put on. To be fair there was only about 12 people entering those. This completion had a much greater scale, which intrigued me. Ever since graduation my life unraveled, COVID happened and it required us to graduate via Zoom. The memories that were supposed to last me forever didn’t even happen. I didn’t get to wear a cap and gown, I didn’t even get to wear the $900 dress I begged my parents for. My friends and I became distant, not being able to hang out for almost a year has that effect on relationships I suppose. The only comfort I felt about the situation was knowing I was headed to a big city far away for university with millions of people and opportunity awaiting me. But that came crashing down when most universities decided it was best that students stay home and get the “college experience from home” I tried to believe they were looking out for us but in reality I think it’s either a liability or money thing, regardless I was paying thousands of dollars a year to lay in bed and watch a digitally illiterate professor try to teach me through a screen. I’m not trying to make the global pandemic about me or anything but it was really putting a damper on what should be the best years of my life.

This competition was a way out, that money could change my life. It wasn’t a lottery win by any means but I didn’t need millions, that’s excessive. I just needed some hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, and here it was. It may not sound like a lot to some people, but for me it was all I needed. It could give me a fresh start. I could pay off the couple thousand worth of student loans I had and drop out, as much as I wanted to blame COVID for my disinterest in my biology degree, I couldn’t. Just because I was good at science didn’t mean I wanted a career dedicated to it, my parents however thought I would be doing a disservice to humanity if I didn’t apply my intellect to the medical field. But I wanted to write. I feel in love with the English language in middle school. While all my peers were moaning over Shakespeare’s nonsensical monologues, I was absorbing every word. I would still have way more money than I would know what to do with after paying off my loans. Maybe I would buy a car, just a cheap little thing to get me from a to b. Anything was better than my dad’s old mountain bike. Half the reason I stayed at home was because I had nothing to drive besides that thing, no one looks good riding a bike and the anxiety of someone seeing me on one crippled me. With the rest I would travel, once COVID subsided of course. I could head to Europe and figure out the rest from there. Immerse myself into the culture and art. That sounded like heaven. But I only had 2 days to come up with the best short story of my life.

I threw myself towards my bookshelf, within it my signature black notebooks from throughout the years. I scurried to find a blank one. Ideally, I would’ve been able to submit one of my old award-winning ones but this competition had specific criteria I had never written about before. I found a dusty blank notebook and began the planning process. Sketchy out ideas and description but none were clicking. I stayed up all night writing and rewriting, creating hundreds of stories I would never complete. I had never felt desperation while writing before, it was clouding my mind. I became so overtired my work became illegible and I was unable to grasp a pencil in my hand.

Before I knew it I woke up, a puddle of drool staining the paper my head rested on. I frantically reached for my phone and when the

lit up my heart sank into my stomach. My late nights and early mornings had finally caught up with me and I had slept through a day. The competition closed in 12 hours and all I had to submit was a soggy notebook. God this situation was bleak. Why had that damn ad even come across my page in the first place, to taunt me? I was so angry that I let my ticket out of my dreary lifestyle slip from my hands. The pool of drool began to form into a pool of tears, and I was ready to accept defeat. All those years studying dictionaries and thesauruses meant nothing if I couldn’t put anything on paper when it counted. So, I decided to write the truth about the tumultuous year I had. How literature had always been the way out for me and how I hoped it could help me one more time. I penned an honest story, my story. I detailed how I lost my friends and valuable years, potential memories, and maybe even a little dignity seeing as I hadn’t changed out of the same sweatpants and t-shirt for almost two weeks. Hopefully, the judges would find humor, or empathy, in my indifference to life.

I submitted my final draft with fifteen minutes to spare and took a much-needed deep breath. The winner would be announced in a week and until then I was going to give myself a twenty-thousand-dollar bucket list. I would not allow any negative thoughts to creep in, as far as I was concerned, I had won, I wasn’t trying to be arrogant but my sister was a firm believer in manifestation and all that crap so I figured it couldn’t hurt to but good vibes out there. Until then I was researching the most artistic and culturally developed locations across the globe, writing details about them in my black notebook. The pros the cons, their tolerance towards women, the average price of hostels, and most importantly their cuisine. A city could have Da Vinci in the flesh but if all they had was seafood and appetizers I couldn’t pronounce I would have to pass it up. My palate was not as developed as my frontal cortex.

The next week passed by slower than an Easter mass, and that’s coming from a Catholic. I had refreshed my email a ballpark eight thousand times when it came. In blue font at the top of the page.

“Congratulations”

I clicked the email and was given a prompt of what was to come, a cheque with my name along with publication and advertisement of my short story. I was in too much shock to cry but I must’ve screamed because my whole family ended up at my bedroom door with concerned looks on their face. Once I regained the ability to speak, we all danced and cheered. I explained to my parent’s my displeasure with life and my desire to dropout, and they were surprisingly receptive. I told them of my dreams, and they assured me they would provide whatever emotional support I needed, provided I financially supported myself, which was more than enough for me. For the first time in over a year my cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. I went to bed and drifted off without having to battle insomnia, I was content.

Two and a half years had come and gone, and I was living my dream. I immersed myself in an artistic lifestyle and was thriving, I had become the person I had always wanted to be. Once COVID was all but eradicated I headed out to a small town in Greece to start my journey. I stayed in cheap hostels and threw myself into the culture, language, and people. I made friends, memories, and art. My writing became thoughtful and rich, it flowed through me and the more art I absorbed the more I could produce. Since then, I had explored almost 70% of Europe. I funded my journeys through contracts with local schools or learning centers, teaching English as a second language to both the young and old. On my days off I explored. My hunger to learn and grow was never satiated. I sat in cafes and wrote memoirs for the passerby. I was fulfilled. I had decided this was not a gap year or temporary trip. I would dedicate my life to art. The admiration, absorption, production, and sharing of art. Hoping that maybe, one day I would be able to give something back to the craft that gave me life. Free and honest life.

success
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