Read The Writer :: The Writer

I stood by the doorway to my poorly lit bedroom. Sighing I picked up the journal that laid on my chipped wooden desk. The day was going on forever it seemed. Even though it was my day off my mind couldn't help but race. I wanted to rip my hair out. Knowing this wasn't a good idea I sat on the bed with journal in hand and began to sketch out ideas. These stories would sadly never see the light of day. I could never publish my stories and hated it with every fiber of my being. The law is the law. But what do they have to do with imagination. Can't we all have ideas, not just that stupid association.

The only way I would get to do anything related to story telling is to join them. "Damn it!" This was so frustrating. The exhaustion of getting ready for this day made me sick with worry. I had to get in. I had to be able to create. Tomorrow I would walk through those large wooden doors and step into a life or death situation. Or, it felt that way to me. I had already planned the story in my mind. It would be a love story about an average woman and man aiming to love one another. It would also deal with the trials life throws at us when we are trying to find our way. This is especially true when it comes to love. I knew this might not be a good idea. Using everyday people in a story. But, I had to give them an idea on how I could write. On what I imagined would be interesting.

I had to stop at my neighbor's tiny apartment tonight. I was excited to let him know that I had entered into the competition. I quickly gathered up my entry letter I received from filling out the forms previously. There wasn't any specific requirements for this. All you need to know is how to write. Making my way out of my apartment that could barely be considered a one bedroom I stepped into the hallway. It always smelled musky and the remnants of cigarette smoke wafted through the air. Sometimes ashes would be left on the front stoop to the building. I used to think that the building had character when I first moved in. Now, I just feel like this place is a dump.

I can't lie to myself any longer. I don't have a lot of money to begin with. You got to stay where you can. Climbing up the stairs that creaked terribly as you put your weight on them, finally led me to my destination. The door had chipped robin's egg blue paint. At least that's what the color appeared to be. Maybe it used to be a different blue in the past that just faded over time. The numbers above said 507.