A writer's starter pack

Everyone has that moment in time when an enlightening thought enters their minds through their cerebral circulation pumped up all the way from their hearts. It reaches after a long journey across different valleys of "what if"s and "but"s that are like waves hitting the shore continuously. Then at one moment, the waves take the form of a tsunami, flooding their blood vessels till every cell in their body is charged with one goal. For Samantha, it came rather late as she sat across a tank full of fish, staring down at a particular book in her hands.

~One day ago~ 

*One: An odd fish*

A shoal of fishes were collected in one end of the long tank, while one fish swam around alone in the other end. From the outside the odd fish looked just like the others, breathing from gills alike, but in fact it was very different from the rest of them.

She dropped a couple of bread crumbs into the tank and immediately with a burst of colours, the fishes were everywhere, the odd fish was camouflaged amongst others, as they fought for the crumbs.

“Okay,” she said from the receiving end of the phone call as she took a bite from her toast, her eyes still scanning the tank. She scribbled a few more words on to the already torn piece of paper that she had balanced between her free hand and the wall, where the phone hung conveniently next to the tank.

After a few more ‘okays’ into the mouthpiece, the line went dead. Phone calls with her uncle had always been like that. Very precise and short. It was either she was saying 'okay' to one of his errands as she scribbled down names of books that she had barely heard of or saying 'okay' as she listened intently to one of his advices on how things should be with life. Then on rare days, he would ask the answer to a riddle that requires full attension and he does get undivided attension, for deep down she wanted to answer his questions within her best capabilities.

She galnced over the piece of paper one last time before tucking it into a bowl containing similar folded and crumpled pieces of paper. She didn't understand her uncle. He lived two seas away in a far away land and visited every three years or so, but he would often call out of the blue asking her to buy a bunch of books on his behalf, urgently. Then the books would have to sit there in some cupboard long forgotten till he had arrived for them. Oddly, the books he had always asked for were neither bestsellers nor new releases, and were often from local authors published two to three decades ago. 

*Two: Excuses*

Once she was done with her toast, she grabbed another and held it between her teeth as she juggled her backpack, key chain and phone as she exited the door. She managed to shove the keys into the keyhole and twist it shut without dropping anything, only to remember that she wasn’t wearing a mask. She cursed under her breath as she unlocked the door all over again to grab the currently most essential item of the year twenty-twenty.

She found a note next to the disposable mask box on the table, which her mother had left, reminding her to feed the fish with proper food and to take the mini sanitizer bottle along. At the very bottom in capitals it read; ‘BE RESPONSIBLE AND STAY SAFE'.

“I’m always responsible” She muttered under her breath as she made a mental note to feed the fish properly in the evening. She then positioned the suffocating mask over her currently vital body parts and pushed the sanitizer bottle inside her jean’s small pocket.

After a long period of working from home, the lock down had been lifted a few days ago forcing everyone to go back to their old lives. Her parents were however still stuck over at her grandparents place since the lockdown had started, giving her some personal space.

She was finally ready to head off to her nine to five job at a chem lab, which she had managed to get thanks to her four and a half year’s chemistry special degree. Though the job was indeed stable, it wasn’t the healthy kind. She dealt with hazardous chemicals during the work hours in personal protective gear and then dealt with antiallergics at night to handle the minor skin irritation caused by glows till the weekend hits. On weekends she’d tutor some kids who were at the epitome of their youth, and then go smashing at a nearby karate class- not literally smashing stuff, but something close enough. It was a perfectly tight schedule to keep a twenty eight year old procrastinator busy enough even with her non-existent dating life and social life. She was busy. Really.

She stood at the bus stop and stretched her legs only to wince in pain. It was a little too sharp to be a gentle reminder that she wasn’t going to stay young forever. She had expected the minor thigh injury from karate to heal soon, but it had stayed longer than the wound she had gotten from the time she fell from a moving bus. 

*Three: Undealt situations*

She glanced at her watch only to realize that the last bus was not coming for another ten minutes. She panicked then remembered to do the breathing exercise from karate alongside massaging the pulsatile tortuous vessel over her temple. Her forehead was already sweating profusely, but the massage seemed to be working. She was by no means ready for a migraine attack at a germ infested bus standstand under a blazing sun. She closed her eyes in frustration as she felt two sweat drops race each other on her neck, so against her better judgement she entered the nearest store solely for its air conditioner. 

The shopkeeper greeted her from behind the counter, a young boy whom she greeted back. She wanted to ask him where the old lady was, the lady who used to sit behind the counter with a warm smile and kind eyes, but she doesn't. She walked in slowly and glanced over the not so tall aisles of books, unsure of what to do next. An image of her young self flashed before her, running across the tall aisles that were in tight echelons ready to tackle her down with stories. 

She heaved a heavy sigh. A lot had changed since then, except the store door that had remained the same throughout the years. She had always stolen a glance at its closed door from her busy life whenever she felt vulnerable. It had always been only a moment, then she'd pick herself up again and board the bus like nothing happened. Everyone has those moments, she often told herself.

She entered deeper into the now unfamiliar lair after rejecting the shopkeeper's offer in assistance. She wanted to be by herself. The first few shelves contained the bestsellers and authors who were living her dream. Her dream, which had been long forgotten.

Writers fascinated her. She used to think it was a super power to be able to give life to different characters at once in a story, by a single person. She was very young when she wrote her first poem, followed by small stories that told life through her big hazels and small face. Then somewhere along the lines she grew up and her dreams were too small to wear every morning as she walked out into real life. 

'Writers are either poorer or richer than normal people,'' her father had once told her when she was thirteen and was considering to be a full time author, "so being a writer will never be a stable enough job". She had wanted to open her mouth and argue, but as her work stopped getting the recognition from the crowd unlike she had expected it would, she realised that maybe her father was correct. 

She stopped on her tracks as her eyes fell on a rather small book at one of the bottom most shelves. She'd recognise that book anywhere since there were plenty of copies of it lying everywhere in her house. She picked it up and traced a finger over the author's name. It was her uncle's very first published book. It had nothing to do with architecture, his field of expertise, she knew for she had read it quite a couple of times over. 

She placed the book back on the shelf with a sigh. The book stood tall reminding her that sometimes one has got to choose the safe path for after all every parth wouldn't keep one happy forever. Her uncle must've obviously been happy when he had published the book. Maybe he wasn't happy anymore. Maybe that's why he stopped writing. Just maybe. 

*Four: Failed attempts*

She picked a couple of other books as she walked down the aisle slowly. Most were books that she had read from libraries and had enjoyed deeply. She was tempted to buy them, just to keep it on her shelf, but she decided not to. Her brother had once said that she shouldn't invest in a book that she had already read. If she were to buy a book, buy something new.

However her brother didn't get the logic.

She wanted to buy the books because she liked it, otherwise she wouldn't want it on her shelf. How would she know whether she liked it if she hadn't read it? 

She chuckled as she remembered how she and her older brother had argued about it for an entire day. In the end she had surrendered, to him. She was the one who always gave up first. Her brother wanted to work abroad and he stood tall with his decision till their parents had agreed. What about her? She couldn't even bring herself to tell her parents what she wanted to do with her life. How could she when she wasn't sure herself?

She had thought that perhaps with time she'd end up where she wanted, just the way Napoleon did. Maybe she had been wrong. Not all ships sailed ideally without the captain's effort. 

Was she too late now to start to steer her ship?

She shuddered as she recalled the hidden folders existing somewhere in her laptop containing the terrifying truth of her failure. Her impulsive attempts since her teenage years to try and create something worth reading, which didn't turn out quite right. She had written four completed novels and countless short stories over the period, which were now long forgotten. She didn't have anyone to share them with. No correction, she didn't want to share them with anyone. 

Now it was too late to start over.

She concluded as she came to the end of a book aisle. She looked around on the spot. She was aware that it had been more than ten minutes in the shop, however she wasn't in the mood for work. She decided to loiter around in the shop for awhile and head straight home. 

*Five: Motivation*

She came up to the shopkeeper, Devin his name tag read, to pay for the two books that she had managed to recall and find from her uncle's endless lists. The shop she had noticed was empty and Devin had a N95 face mask covering a good amount of his face. His curly dark hair bounced freely from his scalp as he turned his head. 

She wasn't sure what compelled her as she found herself asking Devin, about the old lady who used to be there in his stead. 

"That was my grandmother, she passed away three years ago." Devin's eyes suddenly darkened with sadness.

"My deepest sympathies. I'm sorry." She said.

"No don't be. Thank you for asking. You know," Devin's eyes lightened up once again, "this book you're buying is actually hers". He traced a hand through one of the books in front of them.

"Really? Wow I didn't know." She said.

"Yes, it never became famous or anything, but she was happy that she got to write one." Devin probably smiled under his mask, as she watched his eyes soften a little from the corners, "Thank you for buying it. I was afraid that nobody ever read it, you know."

She contemplated whether she should tell him that the book was for her uncle who was probably never going to read it anytime soon, but she decided not to. She nodded at him and took her leave after settling the bill. She went straight home without even regretting about missing work, which was very unprofessional of her. 

The entire evening that day, she had been staring at the book written by Devin's grandmother Claire titled; "A writers starter pack". She wondered why her uncle had wanted it. 

She started to read it.

****

~That day~

*Six: Make peace*

Fish, she had read somewhere were a very intelligent species. They were in fact more intelligent than cats and dogs. That's why there was one fish alone in one end of the tank, because they were too intelligent. It was most often because that one odd fish was aware of how different it was from the rest and had accepted it.

She had sprinkled the fish food into the tank making sure all had enough to eat. 

She sat across the tank staring at the book. She felt overwhelmed and electrified. Suddenly she didn't want anything else in her life other than what her heart wanted. 

She stood up from her chair and went to her laptop. In a blank word page she allowed her fingers to move. 

It was as if her body and her soul were finally at peace after twenty eight years of existing. 

"When you're mind is at peace with you're heart, that is when you know it," she recalled a sentence from Claire's book. 

She the once again sat across her laptop and registered herself to a couple of writing courses with the money she had earned throughout the years followed by quitting her tiring job at the chemistry lab. "I've never felt happier," she said to her parents iver the phone which didn't go quite well, but she knew they'd come around. Her brother surprisingly was very encouraging. 

"Glad you finally made peace with yourself," he had said to her. 

~One day after~

*Seven: An odd fish with courage*

She stared at the fish swimming amongst a couple of plants, as she said "okay '' into the receiver like always. She had bought them new plants because an article said it reduces their stress. She knew that keeping them all in a tank wasn't ethical, but it was too late when she was old enough to understand. It was apparently near impossible to set the fish now since they were bred in tanks, had a higher chance of dying in the real world. 

"Wait," she said to the phine reciever and took a deep breath in, "why would you collect books knowing you won't get to read them?" She had asked her uncle before he hung up after assigning her an errand.

"Who says I haven't read them? I collect the books that I had enjoyed reading." He had told her.

He sounded oddly like someone she knew. She let out a chuckle as she bid farewell to her uncle over the phone. She was contended. 

She may have a couple of hurdles ahead, but she had to take them head on. After all to be a writer, she had to start somewhere and as long as she started somewhere she would someday reach her destination.

She no longer had to depend on the winds that hit her sail, for she was the captain in charge.

She watched a single fish swim alone by itself, as the others swam as a shoal.

She knew that it took more than just gills to be the odd fish.

--The end, but the start of a new beginning.