"No One Else Was In the Room Where It Happened"

There was nothing overly elaborate about this room. Most would say it was common from the outside, with breaks in the glass from a previous break-in, shabby blinds that look they are hanging on by a thread (literally), and in the midst of all that could be see there was only the patched of light that would shine through in the dead of night.

Of course no one would comment, they were all asleep.

Within the walls of a modest house in the middle of a scorching Arizona night, there was a figure of a girl hunched over her notebooks, mechanical pencil in hand, frantically scratching marks that should have ripped the paper in half.

In her concentration, she would bite so hard on her chapped lip that it would bleed. Feeling the pain, she would remember her poor, parched throat and guzzle down some water only to have it dribble down onto her clothes.

With little thought she would hastily wipe her mouth with her long-sleeved shirt and continue on. The coolness of the water almost a relief as she scratched away.

In her frustration with the overflow of words she scrunched the paper she had been writing up in frustration and tossed it angrily across the room.

In desperation she leaned down to look at her laptop to see if she had typed anything of importance throughout the day.

This is all trash, she said angrily putting her computer to the side as she got up to get her headphones. She was done for the night.

Grabbing a book to read she thought that maybe for the night she could pretend that she was not a failure.

For one night she didn't have to compete with thousands who have riveted the world for years with their picturesque, ideal worlds, full of passionate prose, comical one liners, engaging characters, and suspenseful scenes.

How can I compete with that?

Each night she would write word after words and each night she would throw her books on the ground in frustration, read a book, listen to a motivational podcast or article, and end up eating some sugary snack as a mean of comfort because she is discouraged.

Each night she thinks that maybe she will find the secret to success and each night she would feel the inevitable hollowness that she was just not good enough.

She has heard it all from the authors whom she admires whether it be through interviews, research online, even going to their book signings.

The same questions of success would be asked and each time there was no palpable answer for her.

It was frustrating that the career in which she chose was pretty much just luck.

On any given day someone who could be on top of the writing world could be toppled from their pedestal when in that same moment a writer who had spent years thinking that they would never get noticed and on their "last effort piece" be plucked from the jaws of obscurity to go on writing in the public eye for years to come.

Yet there was no help for those who were in obscurity that had nothing to show for it. Sure there were measly scribbles here and there, but nothing that resembled any story.

Nothing that had any meaning to anyone.

One story in billions.

One face in the midst of vast cities, countries, nations and nothing new that could be said under the sun. Each time a story gets redone there seems to be a spark that is lost in the eyes of the reader.

The lone figure of the girl in the night knows this. Felt this.

For that very reason she is afraid to show any work that people would even dare to compare to works that were obviously superior to hers, that obviously had more depth and emotion to tug the heartstrings of millions if not billions.

No.

Any story she wrote would not compare to the world that came before hers. To the world in which she knew.

Her work could not even begin to compare in her eyes and through that mentality she lost heart in any story she should tell.

Her heart got lost with that thought and the world became numb.

Yet if one were to look with those pages they would find the story of hard family life, heartbreak when no one would stay, the utter loss of life and numbness that comes with the awaiting thought of death, til it inevitably becomes more than a thought transformed to a hopeful prayer, and when you take the tool you which to use, a hero saves the day.

No. Not a hero, for the protagonist gets to see past that. They are just as bruised and together they learn how to find a will to heal. If not for themselves than for each other.

When one seemingly goes back to their old life the other now is in the exact danger they saved their friend from.

No. Not friend, for that term stopped being a descriptor of the two protagonists relationship halfway through the novel.

Death seems like the better option and as they take their own life in their hands the other ends the story with a scream.

The ambiguous ending will do little to sate the audience and have them clambering for more. This being the result that the author was going for the whole time.

Now that would have been a story that the world would want to see, but the lone figure sits staring at her computer screen. She doe snot believe that this world is one that should be explored.

Rather she wants to rip it to shreds and never look back. Maybe those around her were right in saying she should try and develop skill in other areas.

After all, who could compete in the writing world anymore with so much competition?

Surely she could write in her 'spare time' if she so wished.

Then again, those around her did not know what those words meant to her. What that message could mean for others.

Should she go against what those around her deem unwise all for the sake of a dream?