The Stage

The room has a musky, wooden smell. It's somewhat cosy with a warm glow from the orange street light trickling through the sole window, which is also bringing a draft because of its old nature. The room doesn't necessarily have a claustrophobic feel, but as it's a narrow room with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books on sides, and at the end of the room is simple brown and wooden swivel chair and table, anyone might feel cramped.

With one ceiling light and table lamp, both switched on, the place where Isiah begins his writing feels on the stage of an important performance. Like standing at an empty stage, with a spotlight on you, eerily quiet and empty.

But it's a place where Isiah wants to perform his debut show, albeit in a book format. For years he has dreamt of sitting down and put his mind on paper. As a bookish person himself, he has absorbed the minds of hundreds of authors and soaked in their words. For now, those minds are stacked on the shelves but it still gives him a sense that they are speaking to him, that they are sharing their words loudly.

Isiah couldn't him but smile at hearing those words. But now, it's time to create his own writer's minds.

It may look like a simple room, but the stage is set and he is ready to start creating his music. Like any performer, they need to warm-up. It could be fine-tuning the strings or doing some stretching.

For Isiah, the warm-up begins when he enters the room. With deep breath and the smell of wood going deep inside his lung, he feels energised. His mind is bursting to come out in words and fingers is writing in mid-air.

As he walks along the narrow room towards alongside the bookshelves, it resembles the way an artist from backstage walks towards the stage. Only instead of a dark narrow room, most walk to the stage resembles a bright concrete room and on either side of the walls, the crew are applauding and willing you on.

For Isiah, he can already hear them...the books are his crews. They are his inspiration and supporters. They may not have the loud cheer and the "Wooo!" but that's irrelevant. Isiah can feel the presence of the books willing him on, cheering him on, asking him to "break a leg".

For it was those books that has given him the support, the motivation and the encouragement to get on the stage. When reading the books and you are in the story, Isiah feels himself being thrown in the storyline, enthralled by the words of the authors and full of awe on how they managed to cast a spell on him.

He approached the chair and puts his hand on the chair. Just as he was about to pull it back from the under the desk and to sit down...stage fright.

The cheer from the books are muffled, his eyes starting to double-vision and he couldn't focus.

Another voice appeared, and a familiar one. "You will never be a writer...the only thing you will write is your own obituary...why don't you stick to reading children's books instead".

He found himself surrounded by his classmates back in high school, circled around him. How did he turn up there? He was supposed to at his home, in his spare room. Instead, he found himself living a flashback of his time being mocked, shouted at and abused by his classmates. As someone who has always enjoyed reading and writing, he has often expressed of his desire to one day to become a writer and hopefully published something...anything. But over time, he was the butt of all jokes because of his preference to read instead of playing sports, and his determination to do well when writing and reciting poetry instead of experimening with test tubes and petri dishes.

The voices, despite being muffled, got louder. He couldn't hear everything, but he can pick up certain words.

"Idiot...freak...loser.....you will never be a writer..."

Silence.

He is back in his spare room again, with his hand still on the chair but feeling more moist with sweat than it was previously. As he took his hand off and wiped the sweat away on his t-shirt, he found himself standing still and breathing quietly.

What if this is all true? What if he will never become a writer? What if whatever he published will be mocked, like it was in high school? Can he continue to handle the same insult, but this time from the world?

The stacked books behind him are quiet. Their words remain. Surely it's a special gift. Nobody can write like that unless you are born with it or undergone courses to learn how to write in a way that traps you in the book.

No, Isiah is merely simple man with a stable job at a local supermarket, living alone and focusing on supporting and caring for his mother who is fast asleep in her bedroom. His life was more about organising and arranging stocks, ordering new supplies, attending customers and after work, living a quiet living, which suits him fine as long as he has his books.

It's nothing to shout about. He was originally going to share a story about his life. But if his days consist of work and reading, how is he supposed to fill in the pages and write about his life if nothing happens? Even if you ask those authors who paint their canvas with their words, if you ask them to paint, his canvas is still in its blank white state.

No, he is not the right person for it. He can't write.

"Who am I kidding?"

It's hard to avoid the spotlight once you are there, so it feels safe to be away from chair. It feels more comfortable to be able to see it rather than to be in it. So he stepped away from the chair, allowed it to be in his vision but he walked away from the stage and is standing behind the curtains.

What do does he do now?

When he was school, he spent a lot of time reading books from the library but didn't make the grade when asked to write stories in his English Literature classes. At home, he struggled to get his points across when going online and mingling with online writing communities. Even at his work, he is not someone who gets praised for his work, however, well he has done it. It is no wonder that his confidence is down and the thought of writing again fills him with fear.

The room that was silent is slowly building up to a cheer, nay more of an encouraging cheer. He couldn't see where it's coming from but as he took the step towards the chair again, he can hear the cheer from either side of him. With deep breath and a pause, he slowly put his hand on the chair again. What was originally going to fill him with fear is now having a calming effect on him. So he sat down, and like a pianist getting ready to perform on a grand piano, he got himself comfortable and readying himself to write.

As soon as he picked up his pencil and put it on the paper, the standing ovation has started.

And the performance has begun.