The Writer

The room was dark, the only light coming from the computer that I sat in front of. Humming along with the song that currently played on the radio, I stared at the blank page of the document I had pulled up little over an hour ago. I had no idea what I wanted to write, writer's block was the worst. The book I would soon be writing had to be absolutely perfect if it was to make me famous. 

"Iris, honey?" Mom stuck her head through my cracked door. "What are you doing?" Her reddish brown hair was covering her brown eyes that were exactly like my own, a smile played along her lips like it always did. 

"Trying to find a good story to write," I sighed in exasperation, before closing my laptop. "I need it to be perfect!" 

"Writers write from their hearts, right? Whatever you write or type will be beautifully written, because of where those words come from," she said with certainty. 

"Thanks mom," I said even though doubt still clouded my mind. 

"Dinner is ready," her head disappeared behind the door. I wasn't hungry, in fact the only thing I wanted to do was rack my brain for ideas. I forced myself to get to my feet and walk down the hall to where the living room was, to the left was where the dining room was. The rest of my family was there; my dad, little sister, and my mom who was fixing everyone's plate. 

"Nice of you to join us sweetie," dad greeted as I sat down. I waved for mom to stop fixing my plate. The less on my plate meant the less I had to eat before getting back to writing. 

"Thanks I guess," I mumbled before stuffing food into my mouth. 

"Everything is so crazy right now with the black people!" Merida piped up from her spot near dad. I was at the head of the table opposite from dad and gave him a glare as he replied, "Blacks should just give it a rest." 

"A black man was killed by an officer for no reason, if I could I would join their protests," I retorted, not dropping my glare. 

"White people are killed by officers every day and no one cares about that," he countered. An idea popped into my head and I fought the urge to get up and begin typing on my waiting computer. 

"Yea, but white people don't have the same past as blacks, now do they?" Everyone instantly became quiet and I hurriedly ate the rest of my food. "May I be excused?" Mom only gave a nod as I hurried to the kitchen to clean my dishes before I went back to my room and began typing. 

This is the story of a young black female....

I woke up with key imprints, pressed into my cheek. I rubbed my face groggily as I stared at the story I had begun writing and only had stopped working on two hours ago. My head hurt from the lack of sleep and the fact that I slept with my face against my computer. The story now had random letters sprawled across the screen from where my face pressed keys down. 

"Jesus," I groaned as I straightened up. My stiff back ached from being in the same position, my whole body ached I came to find out when I stood up to go get something to snack on before beginning my work again. "Mom?" I said in surprise when I walked into the kitchen. She was never up this early, it was currently 7 a.m. 

"Oh.. Hey sweetie!" Her eyes looked weary as though she hadn't gotten any sleep. Her thin fingers fiddled with her coffee cup. I suspected she had drank it long ago. 

"Everything okay?" Instead of grabbing something to snack on like I originally planned, I sat next to her. 

"Yea," she whispered and looked down. 

"No," I countered, wrapping an arm around her and laid my head on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. Her whole body became relaxed as she leaned into my one sided hug. 

"Parents aren't supposed to rely on their children for their problems," she said and after a moment she sighed. "But I have been relying on you a lot lately and I don't regret it." 

She was young, and black, always being defined by her color and not her heart. She didn't care though, her parents were always fighting, which seemed to be a much more pressing issue than racism...

"I don't have a problem with it mom and you can always talk to me," I reassured. She gave me a nod and a weary smile. 

"How's your story coming along?" Abruptly changing the subject, I didn't mind though since I finally came up with something amazing to write about. "Like Merida said, black lives matter is becoming a really big thing so I decided to write a story about a young black female who is oppressed by her race, but she has more pressing matters at hand. So she's like really depressed because of being bullied and because of family issues." 

"That sounds really great, Iris, I hope it turns out well for you," her lips pressed against my hair before I heard her steps become distant. I guess she was going back to sleep, if she had slept in the first place. I hurried to grab my snack before rushing back to my room, where my computer awaited. 

Maddie was currently fighting off a group of girls that were throwing rocks at her for being a black girl in a white school. Tears were streaming down Maddie's face as the rocks connected with her vulnerable skin. Blood began bubbling up from the cuts, and finally with great relief Maddie was rescued by a white boy.

This would be a romance story too, I thought with a smile. Who didn't like a little bit of love within a heart warming story?

Writing was an art, sometimes the writer didn't have any good ideas for their stories, but when their light bulb begins glowing, then it becomes a drug, that's all you can think about is the story and how you can improve it. My light bulb was now shining bright and I was determined to make this the best story I ever made.