Write Your Heart Out

Maggie clutched her purple single subject loose leef paper notebook to her chest, covered in stickers representing her favorite cartoons along with animated cats with pouty faces and speech bubbles next to them with phrases like, "I'll make you biscuits in exchange for your soul." Her eyes scanned all corners of the room and feasted on the clumps of kids who brought their Macbooks, Chromebooks, and iPads that glistened like seashells washed up from the tide under florescent sunbeams. She could overhear the chatter of kids as she pushed through the crowd, talking about how their teachers acclaimed their writing works in front of their entire class and how others won awards from local writing contests and couldn't wait to show off their writing skills to others. She even heard of one that won a scholarship to a special college writing program based on an essay she submitted on how cultural division was ruining the country. After fighting her way through the throng, Maggie found a chair that was secluded enough from the masses that seemed to enlarge the longer she stared at them. She thought it best to keep her eyes glued to the floor where she watched her notebook flop on her incessantly bouncing leg that knocked her bug-eyed, squishy elephant pen on the carpet.

She had begged her mom to enroll her in this summer writing workshop, it was all she did every summer anyway, she locked herself away in her room and stayed glued to her notebook that transported her to worlds of advanced cities in the skies that transcended current technology and imagination or ancient jungle civilizations ran on a luminating mineral, undiscovered by the corporate tyrants that would surely abuse it's wonderous power. She could learn to love a monster who never knew love for himself or anyone else or find friendships in the most unfriendly corners of the world, all while walking down the graphite trail she blazed.

What grabbed her attention the most while reading about the workshop was the optional contest at the end of the four weeks. All the skills that she'll have culminated throughout the course will be tested by writing a short story that can possibly be turned into a full fledged novel with the help of local bestselling author, Beatrice Downing and her editorial team. She'd have a chance to have her story ran under the eyes of professionals who knew what it was to create a story that people wanted to read, characters that people fell in love with and rooted for. She'd get to pick the brains of the people she looked up to more than anyone else in the world. It was the opportunity of a lifetime and Maggie refused to pass it up. But now that she was here, that opportunity disappeared on the horizon of the sea of endless potential, talent, and ambition, more than she could ever dream of having.

She opened her notebook and flipped through the pages to appear busy while she waited for the introductory presentation to begin. Kids gradually filled the seats around her, inching closer and closer to where she was sitting. Her cheeks flushed red and she cracked her knuckles until her fingers couldn't pop anymore. A muffled voice cut through the cacophony of preteen chatter.

"Something something pen."

Maggie responded with a reflexive mumble she hoped sounded like an inquisitive invitation and not like a seal grunting for food from SeaWorld visitors.

"You dropped your pen," repeated the owner of the muffled voice, a girl with a bracy smile was holding Maggie's elephant pen in her hand, offering it back to her while occupying closest seat that left practically no air between them.

"Oh, thank-thank you," Maggie replied, trying to hide the lump that formed in her throat. She took the pen from the girl's hand in one quick motion as to not draw attention to her shaky hand.

"I had a pen like it once, but it was an owl. I loved squeezing it all the time and watching the eyes pop out at me. I tried to see if I could only get one eye to pop out at a time, but I squeezed too hard and both of the eyes popped out and I couldn't get them to go back in. And I never got another one. It's cool that you have a pen like that is what I'm saying," she spewed her story like she only had a limited time to tell it, like a buzzer would cut her off before she was finished to tell her time was up.

"Oh, yeah. It's my favorite pen," responded Maggie in a way that sounded more like a confession than a statement of fact.

"Do you remember where you got yours from? I got mine in an Easter basket when I was eight. No, nine, I think I was nine. I was so excited about that pen, way more excited than the candy and toys. Most of them were from the dollar store anyway so they broke almost immediately. Sorry, I tend to talk a lot when I'm nervous, there's just so many people here and crowds make me, well, nervous."

Maggie shot her an understanding nod and halfway smile. She sighed to herself, relieved to see someone else not reacting positively to the sardine package they were squished into.

"I don't know if you've noticed but most people here talk about writing very seriously. They've won awards for the stuff they've written, it's crazy! I just want to get better at writing so I can make better Harry Potter fanfiction. I feel like I know the characters like my own family but I don't know how to communicate their feelings in an interesting way to the reader, you know?"

Maggie had never read fanfiction before, as a matter of fact, it was talked about among her peers like it was something to be embarrased of. Something that cringey people create when they have no original ideas of their own. But this girl talked about it so proudly and with such passion that Maggie respected her for it.

"Also, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I see that you've brought a notebook when most people in here have computers to write on. Do you not have one of your own? It's totally fine if you don't I was seriously just curious," the girl asked in a fluctuating tone. Maggie wasn't offended by the question but she didn't understand why the girl would ask if she had such obvious anxiety about asking it.

"Um, no, I-I have one. I just prefer the feel of pen and paper, I guess," Maggie responded plainly.

The girl seemed surprised by the answer and melted back into her bouncy composure like she was never embarrassed for a moment, "oh, yeah, I get that. I prefer laptop myself just cause I tend to write so fast that my wrist starts to cramp up. Then I get so focused on the pain that I forget my train of thought, so I just prefer to type it out, gets done much faster that way. Not to mention, I can never read my own writing to save my life, it all just looks like chicken scratch."

Maggie nodded along as the girl talked, attempting to show courtesy to the one person who's given her the kindness of talking to her, wondering if her stream of conciousness ever comes to a halt.

"But, um, where did you get your pen from? Have you had it for a long time? I just never see pens like that anymore so it's crazy that I'd run into the one person that not only has the only notebook in sight but also a very unique pen that I haven't seen since elementary school. So, how did you come to possess it?"

Maggie waited for her companion to finish her list of questions to turn her head to the pen in her hand. Her shoulders dropped and a small smile crept across her face as she recalled the day she bought it.

"It was at a book fair, back in fifth grade. My mom only gave me enough money for one book, I had my heart set on the newest Nancy Drew book. But I saw this little guy and he looked at me with those eyes, just begging to come home with me. He was the last elephant in the box, you know. I imagined that if I walked away without him in my hand, he'd be left defenseless against all of the predators that we're swarming him in that box, lions, tigers, bears, the works. I didn't want to leave him in there to die a tragic, imaginary death without a friend in the world. So, I guilt tripped myself into buying an inanimate pen through a silly fantasy I made in my head. That sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. Especially knowing that I waited a month for that book to come out, but I knew Nancy Drew and my elephant friend couldn't come home with me. So I ended up getting a small notebook instead. It sounds really dumb when I say it out loud," Maggie relayed, her embarrassment showing plainly on her face as she squeezed her elephant pen and watched his eyes pop out of their socket.

"I like that story," the girl said plainly.

Maggie was taken aback by the girl's short, quick response. She glared at the girl with the puzzled expression of an English major that had been asked to solve an unsolvable equation that not even the greatest mathmeticians would touch with a twenty foot pole.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Maggie asked.

"I just said that was a great story, it's got everything a story needs, in my opinon. Danger, sacrifice, hope, inspiration. It's missing some romance and comedic relief but not everyone is into that kind of thing. Not to mention, subverted expectations. You thought you wanted the thing you originally went to the book fair for, but you ended up leaving with what you really wanted. And frankly, what you really needed."

Maggie hesitated with a snarky smirk on her lips before replying, "I needed a squishy elephant pen that makes its eyes pop out when you squeeze it?"

"You needed tools to begin your writing journey. A notebook, a pen, and a story. I bet that elephant has helped you create a million great stories by now from the look of your full notebook."

Maggie paused at the girl's insight. She turned to her notebook and flipped through the endless pages of scribbled words in her own handwriting. She was right, almost every story that was written in this notebook was written with the very same pen Maggie held in her hand. She hadn't thought about it until now.

"I-I suppose you're right," Maggie replied, looking back at the girl with a newfound, excited smile on her face. The girl smiled in turn and then stood up promptly.

"Well, it was really nice talking to you, I gotta find a bathroom before the meeting starts and I don't know if I'll be able to find you again when I come back. Maybe afterwards we can chat again, if you want. I'd love to hear more of your story ideas!" the girl extended her invitation.

Maggie's smile lingered as she responded, "I'd like that very much."

"Cool, my name's Amber by the way. Sorry, I never asked for yours," Amber responded.

"I'm Maggie," she said, followed by a quick handshake exchanged between the two.

"Bye Maggie!" Amber called back as she faded into the crowd.

Maggie waved after her and brought her gaze back down to her notebook. She thumbed over it with the endearment of a new mother. Suddenly, the feedback of a microphone echoed through the speakers and called everyone's attention to the front of the room where someone was now standing on the stage. A college-aged man who wore a sky blue shirt that had the words, 'write your heart out,' in bold, white letters on the front. His smile looked like it was cut out of a magazine and glued to his face.

"Hello, young writers! We're so excited that all of you could be here for our Write Your Heart Out workshop! You all have your own unique backgrounds in writing, whether you're an aspiring fiction author, a hopelessly romantic poet, or a brilliant research essayist. Whatever reason you find yourself here today, we're so glad you all decided to come here and expand your knowledge and share your love of writing! Over the next four weeks, you'll learn all of the qualities needed to construct a story. The structure of plot, how to create emotional character arcs, and you'll hone your skills to develop your own unique writing style!

He continued on about what they'd be covering each day, and how each week will be dedicated to a different writing technique and the individual skills they would be practicing over the course of the workshop. The more he divulged, the slower Maggie's foot tapped and her breathing slowed. But her heart pumped ecstatically and she bit the inside of her cheek to hide the goofy grin she desperately wanted to show. Her gaze was fixed to the speaker like a hound's to a duck gliding on a misty morning pond, hanging on his every word. She shook with the same excitement when she wrote her first story, the ideas flooded her head with the same ease as they did back then, and she couldn't wait to get them down in her notebook.

"Now, we know there's a lot of you here today, so we're going to be breaking you up into smaller groups based on the letters of your last name. When I say so, please disperse and find the sign that contains the first letter of your last name and check in with your group leader. We can't wait to see what you creatives cook up for us! Happy writing, everybody!" and with that, he hopped off the stage with a rabbit-like spring in his step.

Maggie rose from her seat and scanned the walls in search of the sign that contained her letter. She landed on it and made a bee line across the hotel ballroom. She greeted her group leader and soon the group sat down socratic circle style around a square of fold out tables. Maggie's group was smaller than most of the other groups, she breathed a sigh at the observation.

The group leader introduced herself and passed down a stack of paper, each person grabbed the top sheet and handed it off to the next person. Maggie grabbed hers and skimmed through it. It was a questionnaire. She stared at the first question at the top of the page as she held the paper firmly in her hands.

'What made you want to start writing?'

Maggie would have stared at this question for thirty minutes not knowing where to even begin to answer it. But she looked at her elephant pen and smiled as she closed her fingers around it. She assumed the position like a private fresh out of boot camp, and allowed her elephant friend to lead the way.