You'll Never Be a Writer

1

I sat in his office surrounded by half graded papers, shelves of books, and a layer of dust. His office seemed to be the smallest in the building and shoved into the farthest corner of the English Department building. I’d had a hard time finding him, and now sitting inside of it with him, the room didn’t seem to fit us. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, staring at him with open and hopeful ears.

“Why do you want to be a creative writer?” He scoffed, his pink nose wrinkled in disgust. “You see these?” He asked as he tossed a few books on the desk between us. “This is a creative writer. You see me?” He flailed his fat arms around in a circular motion, pointing at his cluttered room. “This is what being a writer got me.”

I looked down at the books that he’d thrown down on the desk, saw his name, then looked back up at him. “What are you trying to tell me right now?”

He pushed his glasses up further on his nose and leaned back. “I’m telling you, you need to have another plan.”

It was my turn to scoff. “I don’t want to have another plan. I just want to be a writer.”

He laughed, tossing his bald fat head back as his belly shook. “I’m a writer. But I’m a teacher. That’s what pays the bills.”

I came here for help, I wanted to say to him. But it was senior year, he knew that I needed help. Time was running out and I felt like I didn’t know what I was doing. What was the use of having a degree if I couldnt use it? "I don’t want to be a teacher. I just want to be a writer.”

He laughed again. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

2

The numbers are jumping on the page, I don’t seem to understand a thing.

My head is spinning and I’m thinking about how I didn’t sleep because I feel like I didn’t get enough to eat but I didn’t want to ask my grandmother the night before for more because everyone else needed food too.

I’ve always hated math and sitting in geometry with a bunch of people who seem to just get it, I want to leave. As I’m sitting, feeling like I’m floating above myself, a story forms.

Quickly, maybe even too fast, I’m pulling out my notebook. I just need to write it down before it’s gone. I just need to capture it before it floats away.

I’m writing faster than light. I’m seeing the characters as they form. The story spills on the page and I’m engulfed.

One moment I’m on Mars, the next the page is ripped right from under me.

“What is this?” His voice, annoyed, old, and judging asks. His bifocals focus, his lips turn into a frown. “What is this in my class? Is this what we’re doing on the board?”

I look at him, I have no words. I don’t tell him I don’t understand. I don’t tell him that I don’t even care to understand.

“Can I have my notebook back?”

He rips the pages from the book, nevermind the fact it’s bound on the side. The book pulls, the pages disappear into the garbage can. A class full of fifteen-year-olds giggle and lock eyes with me as he walks back to the board.

I slump further into my seat, still not understanding, still not caring.

3

I’ve been holding onto my notebook all morning and I want to ask her to look at it, but I’m afraid she’ll think it’s dumb. If she’s really your best friend why would she think it’s dumb?

The bell rings letting us out of third-period communications class and Ms. Parchment dismisses the class of rowdy eleven-year-olds. Slowly, I pack up everything except my white binder and pencil. Maybe if I catch her when no one else is around I can hand it to her.

I see her ponytail slip out of the room in a sea of kids and I stay behind. It’s dumb anyway. No one needs to read my writing.

I shove my notebook down into my bookbag and slide it over my shoulder. Yeah, it was dumb anyway.