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So You Want To Be a Writer

Hello Friend

By Denise WillisPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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So You Want To Be a Writer
Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

I've wanted to be a writer since I was a child. I bought three-ring notebooks, and filled all of them with wide lined paper so I had plenty of room for my large handwriting, and room to cross out mistakes and write in the correct sentence or words. I kept these masterpieces under my bed so I could refer to them when I needed inspiration, and also, so I didn't write about the same things over again, although most of my stories sounded eerily alike.

My mother subscribed to Woman's Day, and usually in the back of the magazine there would be a contest of some sort, sometimes for poetry, and sometimes for an artistic endeavor, but when it was for writing a short story, I would always enter. There were no computers for kids to use then, and we didn't have a typewriter, so I would pull out the notebooks and find a story to send in. If there wasn't one that fit the description of what they wanted, I would make one up and send it in. Of course, I never heard from them, but I kept trying.

I remained a free spirit as I grew older, always entering contests, and stapling the rejection notices to a cork board in my bedroom. When I graduated from high school, I located a quaint studio apartment across from a McDonalds restaurant, where I quickly joined the team of servers. My life was complete. And I kept adding rejection slips to the corkboard I'd had for years.

One evening, while surfing on my computer, I noticed a strange email from a source I didn't recognize. I hesitated before opening the email, since I worried about viruses, but it seemed harmless enough, and there was a big smiling sun on the invitation to writers. Cautiously, I opened the email, and in only a few words, some nameless soul asked me if I was serious about writing. I checked off the box that said yes, and then, another screen appeared. This screen had two questions, one, was written in the mouth of a dragon, and asked if I was fiercely determined to be a success. The other was written in the night sky, and asked if my success would change me, and if so, how would it change me? I hesitated, wondering what it was all about, but then proceeded to answer the first question yes, I was fiercely determined, but the second question took some time. Would success change me, and if so, how would it change me? That took some thought, because none of us know what success will really do if and when we achieve it. I decided to skip that question and see if I could move forward without answering, and it let me.

The next screen that came up showed a picture of a small, black book. On the outside of the book was my name in gold lettering. There was a tab that allowed me to flip open the book, and on the first page were the words, hello friend, and they were written in some type of old cursive that I did not recognize. A smile crossed my lips, and I'm thinking that this has to be the work of a child. On the next few pages there was nothing but arrows pointing to the next page, and then finally, there was a page showing a sign that makes one statement:

By Mark Duffel on Unsplash

That told me to stay on the path I was on, to keep writing, even though I had yet to sell a story or win a contest. It gave me new hope, and just as I was feeling that hope, the black book disappeared from the screen. That seemed curious, but so did this entire email. I tried to get an IP address but for some reason everything had disappeared. Maybe I was tired, and this was all my overactive imagination. With that in mind, I went ahead and went to sleep for the night, dreaming of black books floating in the night sky and dragons consuming them.

The next morning I woke up with the sun shinning in my face. It was going to be a beautiful day, and that made my shift at McDonalds seem a little easier to handle. It paid the rent, barely, but it gave me a lot of free time to do my writing. The first thing I did was make coffee, and then I rushed over to my computer to see if I had another email from the little black book people, but no, there was nothing there. Hmmm. Maybe I had made it all up in my imagination, which would be a shame since it was such a nice thought. I quickly got dressed in my uniform, and then headed for work to carry out my double shift. I needed the extra money, since I hadn't sold any short stories, and I liked talking to the people and listening to their stories. That often gave me inspiration for my stories. I would watch a couple on a bench who were obviously in a romantic mood, or maybe a couple having an argument, and I would try and figure out what they were arguing about, or simply record the body language and facial movements in my mind to use in a story later, Today, however, it was far too busy to be watching people.

By six that evening, my feet were killing me and I was ready to go home. I clocked out, waved to Charlie, my boss, and headed across the street to my little studio apartment. At least it was close and I didn't have to walk very far, because tonight I don't think my feet would have made it. Once inside I turned on my answering machine, but there were no new messages, kicked off my shoes, and got comfortable while I heated up some leftover food from the restaurant. I poured a soda, then sat down in front of my computer and opened the email with my fingers crossed, and there it was. It said day 2, please open. When I opened it this time, it took me to the page where I left off the night before, and the page turned to the same question. It asked me, against a slowly brightening sky, would success change me, and if so, how would it change me? I wondered if it was going to let me bypass the question again, or if I had to answer. There was a reply box, and an arrow at the bottom of the page. Slowly, I moved my mouse down to the arrow, and clicked on it. The next page was another arrow, and another arrow, and finally, a page that had another message for me . It read:

I want you to write me a story about a homeless person. You are the homeless person, and you have three close friends. A stranger comes up to you and tells you he can make you comfortable for the rest of your life, but you must abandon your friends. What do you do? Why? Please, keep it short and to the point.

At that point, the book once again faded into nothingness. I assumed I would need to present this story the next day, so I began creating ideas. What would I do in that situation? How could anyone abandon their friends for comfort, but then, are we not responsible for ourselves first? It took me a few hours, but in the end I knew that friendship was the most important thing here, and that without my friends, being comfortable would only make me feel sad, because they would still be homeless. I quickly wrote my brief story and sat it on top of the computer, and then went to bed for a much needed nights rest.

The next day, I got an envelope in the mail from a publishing company I had sent a short story to a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, it was yet another rejection slip, but this one was different. This time the only reason I was rejected was because I sent it to the wrong audience, that they catered to a younger audience, and my story was geared more toward a teen audience. I was elated! I framed it and sat it under the corkboard with the rest of the rejection notices.

That evening, I sat down about the same time as the night before, and went to my email. There it was, day 3, please open. When I did, it took me to a new page where I typed in my story. Once the story was finished, a few brief seconds passed and then I went through three more pages of arrows, and another assignment request for the next day. Tonight's assignment was this:

A man is sitting in a fast food restaurant, and you can tell he is hungry. Do you tell him to leave, ask him what he is doing there, or quietly get him some food and set it on his table so as not to embarrass him? Oh, and what would be nice to do as well?

This had a theme, it seemed so to me, The next night was similar, as it asked the question, if you knew a lady in the neighborhood had a drinking problem, and you also knew she was a kind and goodhearted person, would you get involved in the community gossip about her, give her dirty looks, laugh behind her back, and shun her, or would you be her friend, give her a little nip in her coffee and invite her to your social functions? What would you do?

These questions went on for a week. Finally, one evening I turned on the computer and there was no little black book, no instruction, nothing. I continued to check every hour up until midnight, and then again the first thing the next morning, but nothing. Just before I was about to leave for work I heard a message come in, and I ran to my computer. All it said was Hello Friend, open please, which I hastily did. On the screen, against a bright sunrise, it said in bright yellow letters; If you were to achieve success, would it change you, and if so, how would it change you?

Underneath in the reply box, neatly written in cursive, was an answer. It simply said, no, it would not change me, and if it could, it would only be for the better.

It was signed, Thank You Friend, you won!

I was totally confused now, but as I went across the street, I figured it was some sort of game and it would show up on the news or something, and everybody would get a good laugh out of it.

Strangely enough, when I walked in the door, Charlie and all the employees were standing around the serving area, and there were balloons and a cake with my name on it. I didn't know what to think, but then a group of ladies started through the front door and congratulated me on my accomplishment. They were the little black book ladies, and their mission was to find one dedicated writer a year, who was not only dedicated to writing, but had a pure, loving spirit and genuinely tried to help their fellow man. They knew this was true by the answers that were given in the stories they asked me to write.

I didn't know what to say or do, and I thought I would pass out. My face felt flushed and red, and my heart was pounding hard, like it would explode at any minute. My gift? A full scholarship to the best writing school of my choice, $10,000, and a spot on Good Morning America. My dreams had more than come true, and it would some day be the best story I would ever write!

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About the Creator

Denise Willis

I love art as much as writing, and when the world feels dark, I get out my paper and colored pencils and draw while listening to music. When my husband and I were going through a divorce, journaling is what got me through that..

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