Mistress of Doubt

Darn it! The Old Hag is following me again! I just can't, not after yesterday. Another day like that, and I'm finished as a writer.

Doubling my pace, I cut through allies and shops, but I could still hear her high heels clicking behind me. Five shops and three alleys later, the clicking finally stopped. I pretended to look back at a passing bus to confirm I lost her.

Darn it! Still there! What have I done to deserve this? Unlike me, she wasn't even sweating. It was ridiculous! Instead of looking frazzled, she looked like she came from a glamour shoot. Darn that beautiful long blonde hair.

Descending the stairs to the subway, I never hesitated but raced past the passengers boarding the subway cars, ascending the opposite stairs. I quickly turned and faced the stairwell. She didn't emerge.

Ha! Old Hag wants to follow me – I think not! 

I resumed my course to Starbucks, feeling elated, which hopefully will give me a boost on finishing chapter three. That would be sweet, especially after she convinced me to quit writing yesterday.

"Dolce cinnamon latte with two pumps of vanilla," I said.

I grabbed a seat, unzipped my backpack, and pulled out my laptop. My fingers flew across the keyboard – the result of elation and caffeine. Ideas popped faster than I could type. This writing session was going to be epic, unlike yesterday's fiasco.

Just thinking about it slowed my pace. Yesterday, she ordered a coffee, but my writing is what she wanted. She sipped the black liquid from her paper cup like she hadn't a care in the world while hatching a plan to sip the creative muse right out of me the whole time. I hate her! Especially since she makes sense.

Shaking off my befuddled thoughts, I looked up to clear my head. Are you kidding me? The Old Hag stood in line studying the menu, but I saw her sideways glance. She'd almost be pretty if it weren't for her face. Why the little black dress? Did she come from a party?

I had nowhere to hide, and there was nothing I could do. So, I chose to ignore her and returned to my chapter. I had yet to add ten words before I heard her shrill voice.

"I see you have an empty seat," she said. "May I join you?"

"Would it matter if I said no?"

"Absolutely not." She sat, crossed her legs, and placed her cup precariously close to my laptop.

"Do you mind?"

"Oh, don't be a grouch," she smiled, raising her eyebrows at my laptop. "Besides, it wouldn't be a great loss."

There she goes again. Dragging me down. That darn voice! Why does it sound so sexy?

"Not going to snap back? Are you capitulating?” She asked.

"Don't you have a cauldron to check on? I need to finish this chapter."

"You "need" to finish? Why?" She took a sip of coffee, giving me a playful look. "No one will ever read it."

Why butterflies? She's an old hag. I can see through that gorgeous exterior of hers.

"I'm not going there," I said. "You convinced me yesterday, but not today. Today, I write!"

She laughed. "You're so funny thinking you're a writer. "Today I write," she said, imitating me. "You're so dramatic."

"Ha!" I finally scored one. "Writers are dramatic! Which proves I'm a writer."

"Grass is green. Leaves are green. Therefore, Leaves are grass. You're getting pretty desperate to stoop so low."

Her wit dazzled me, interrupting my ability to see through her facade. Fortunately, the Old Hag's spell wore off before I did something stupid, like run off with her and give up writing. That witch sure knows her spells. Now, Let's see if I have enough magic to dispel her.

"See here! I know your game. I've seen you in action – destroying would-be writers. You bat your eyes and toss your hair. What chance did they have? They dropped their pens and followed you home. But, not me, you Old Hag! Your temptation to quit writing and "enjoy" life won't work on me. So, you can take that drop-dead gorgeous body of yours and find some other dolt. I'm a writer! I don't need to "enjoy" life. I like being frustrated, feeling inadequate, and wondering if I'm a fraud!"

After I calmed down a bit, I noticed people staring at me. The Old Hag stared, too.

"My, my. You have a temper," She sipped her coffee. "Why attack me? Just because I'm honest? I'm only trying to save you from embarrassing yourself. From wasting your life. Am I a monster for trying to save you?"

"You only want another trophy on your shelf. Doubt is all you have to offer: doubt that I can write, doubt that I should write."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned closer, placing her elbows on the table, "You call it doubt, but I call it reality. You can't write. You're no good. Of course, I believe you should quit. Only true writers should write."

There it was. No more hints. She placed her cards down. Part of me believes her. Part of me wants to embrace her. To hold her and never go back to writing. But another part of me won't allow me to quit. It drives me to continue writing. No matter the cost or the consequences, I must write!

"You've lost, Old Hag. I see your hand, and it isn't enough. You say, 'Only true writers should write.' That's where you made your mistake. You see, I'm writing right now, which means I'm a writer."

Several things happened at once. Her hair turned gray, her little black dress stretched becoming a black robe, her face wrinkled, and large moles appeared. The mistress transformed into an old hag.

She stood and bowed, accepting defeat, then disappeared into thin air. No one noticed. And why would they? This was a private battle between the Writer and the Mistress of Doubt.