A Narrative on Writing


It was a dark and stormy night… That’s what you would say if you could, but you can’t. In fact, it’s exactly 12:38 in the afternoon on a sunny Tuesday. So, no, you can’t say that. But there was a storm. Not in the literal sense, no; this storm was brewing inside a young author’s head as she sat there, fingers on the keys of her computer, anxious to create the wonderful symphony of click-clacks made by someone whose mind is tapped into a different world. But her fingers remained still as the young woman plotted the next turn of events that would lead her heroine to her ultimate salvation . . . Or maybe even her doom.

The author sits, eyes closed, back straight, glasses once perched delicately on her nose now sit on a throne of her hair- pushed out of the way so she can think think. To become her own character. That is her goal for right now, to see the world of her own creation; to take part in it and see where each path could take her. That is her goal, and her way to salvage the burning wreck that is this story and make it into a masterpiece. To have it sitting on tables and shelves everywhere. To see it on display at multiple bookstores. To see the seal of the Pulitzer Prize on the jacket of her book.

So she sits lost in her own world. And then, suddenly, like a light switch that has been turned on in a dark room to make everything clear, she sees it. She sees where she must take her heroine now. Suddenly her eyes fly open and her back hunches and she pulls her glasses down so quickly that they land crookedly on her face, but she couldn’t care less as her fingers dance across the keyboard, desperate to write down what she saw before a curtain is pulled over it and she can no longer express it. She hunches even more and her fingers move faster and suddenly one page is filled, then five, and then seventeen.

She writes and she writes and she writes until her hands are sore and her mind is so exhausted that it feels like if she looked in the mirror she would see steam coming out of her ears. She un-hunches, her vision painted black across the white canvas that is the page. She fixes her glasses and lets out a long sigh. She saves the document and creates an email to her editor. The mouse looms over the send button. And she wonders if she’s ready to send her work--her baby--out to the world. She inhales slowly and closes her eyes. She allows her finger to become its full weight. And as she exhales her masterpiece is sent out to be be read.


I wrote this for the prompt

I wrote this for the prompt of writing something that you where waiting to do for a while. So I did it.