Write for Yourself

“Just write for yourself, he says. Of course, it’s just that easy.” She paced back and forth in front of her computer, trying to ignore the white screen that returned her glances emotionlessly. Sometimes she swore it was taunting her. Not that her notebook would have been any better. The lined paper would seem even more condescending, as if to say “Come on, I’ve done the easy part. The lines are already here. Straight, pretty and waiting. Just write something! Anything!” Of course, this is why the traitorous collection of loose leaf now lay face down and half open, peeking out from under her bed.



None of this had anything to do with anything, but it helped her stall. Why was she nervous anyway? It wasn’t like she’d never written anything before. Even the renegade notebook could attest to that.



“Enough, just sit down and write it.” She took a step towards the computer chair, then hesitated. Maybe she just needed to pump herself up a bit more. She glimpsed her brother’s confused expression from the doorway as she started to shadow box. It was only a few seconds before she remembered why she had opted for the arts as opposed to anything requiring excessive physical exertion. She plopped down in the black chair and tried to catch her breath while she opened a word document for the fourth time. Nothing. It was just as blank as her customarily bountiful idea bank currently was.



“Come on! You can do this!” Shoving back from the desk, she stood and walked over to her CD player. Music was supposed to be excellent inspiration, right? Whatever, it was worth a shot. She cycled through her playlists. Tchaikovsky? No. Frank Sinatra? No. Atreyu? Not quite. A particularly loud metalcore song blasted through the speakers, bringing a smile to her face. At least, until she turned to see that, despite the mood music, her computer screen remained less than amused and frightfully unadorned.



Sitting down in the chair again, she sighed. Maybe she was taking it the wrong way. A few clicks and she was staring, yet again, at the comment that had started all of this.



You need to stop worrying about what other people think and just write for yourself.



“Don’t worry about what other people think. Write for yourself. Sure sounds easy enough, doesn’t it, Mr. Internet! Who are you anyway? You don’t know me! I mean, it is legitimate advice and all, and I have been working on it, but…but THAT’S NOT THE POINT!”



Outside of the bedroom, the three other members of her family exchanged bewildered looks. “She’d doing it again.” The girl’s little brother said. As a group, they had come to terms with the strange manner in which their daughter/sister had decided to spend her free time, but every now and then, they worried. Her parents had read their share of books on the teen years and the transitions their child would go through, but not one of them could explain the impossible mixture of the music currently pouring out of the barely cracked doorway, the random and less than sane ranting, and the strange and unexplainable sounds peppered in between the two.

“You think that just because I was insanely excited that you understood my gamer references that you can just come in here and try to give me advice! What kind of crack-knobbed looby are you?” The boy in the hallway required no further prompting as he shook his head and escaped to the sanctuary of his own room. A few more minutes, and the girl’s parents were following suit, hoping that this latest fit would end soon, and that their daughter would gain even the semblance of normality.



Sanity and normality were the farthest things from the frustrated writer’s mind as she erased what she’d been writing for the fourth time. It was like every time she started writing, someone else’s voice took over her words. Thoughts, ideas and feelings that were not her own spilled out through her fingers and onto the keyboard. If she had been the swearing sort the entire experience might have been quite a bit more colorful. Instead, she took a deep breath, and started again. It was all for naught, of course. Within a couple of minutes her finger was becoming reacquainted with the backspace button after not-so-long an absence.



“Write for me…what the heck does that even mean? Write what for me?” There was no response to her query save for the steady hum of her computer. “Maybe I should write back to the guy, tell him what I think of his crummy advice. Yeah.”



She opened the web page again and clicked on send a message after arriving at his profile. Brown eyes studied the biography for what had to be the millionth time and, in spite of her efforts, she cracked the same smile she always had when she read his particular brand of humor. Scolding herself, she focused on the empty text box and the blinking cursor. What would she write? Would she be witty and humorous? Would she be convoluted and obfuscate her point? Maybe she should just come out with it and spew all of the crazy thoughts that had been running through her head since he left that 15 word bomb on her own portfolio. Suddenly, an idea struck her, and for the next fifteen minutes she said nothing. Her fingers clacked away at her keyboard in time to the music that still played in the background.



A quick gust of breath left her lips as she sat back in her chair, satisfied with the literary masterpiece before her. Dragging the cursor over to send, she took one final glance, and hit submit.



Her Message:





         

Thanks. I appreciate the advice. I’ll work on it.