Dreams

I run my hands through my hair, blowing out air as I lay in bed staring at the yellow wall beside me. I had almost grown unfamiliar with my writing, it was something that I had once done to pass time. As school had gotten busier, I found less time to write about the things I wanted to write about and more time to write about things people wanted me to write. I hadn’t picked up a book that I enjoyed in over six months, and I had a pile of books sitting in the corner of my small closet, waiting to be read. I had been wanting to read the books I already had, but every time I tried it was as if an obstacle was in my way.

I closed my eyes, breathed in, and started typing. 

         Then deleted all of it. 

         As I jotted down some ideas, nothing good came to mind. I could easily write about articles, but that was the whole point of the creative writing class I had begun taking a few weeks ago: write about what you want to write. I could write about books, but did I really want to write about books? Having millions of possibilities, it became even more frightening. What If I wrote something so absurd that the teacher would have no choice but to give me a low score. What if I can't come up with a story to begin with.

         My mind had become a blank canvas, and I couldn’t find the shades of blue to start painting the sky. I hadn’t written fiction in a long time, and I couldn’t even think about what I wanted to write about. I could write about anything I wanted, but certainly there is a limit to that. She had just told us that it had to be a short story, and the rest would come to us. But when would it come? Had everyone else already finished their story? Was I the last student who hadn't even started writing?

         As the minutes went by, I found my brain had become one giant mess of ideas that could not be sorted out. I closed the laptop , determined to not even write about anything. I could just drop the class, it would not have any effect on my records. Maybe I was not built for this. Maybe I would just stick with what I knew best: articles. With the determination that I wasn’t going to write anymore, I went downstairs to get a snack. 

         I plopped myself down on the sofa and decided to turn on the television, with no other plans for the rest of the day. As I switched between channels, I finally decided to watch a movie I hadn’t heard of before. It was science fiction, which was my least favorite genre, but it looked intriguing. A couple who have to survive living in space for the rest of their lives, which sounds dreadful considering they're enemies. Then, it struck me.

         It was as if a lightbulb had turned on in my mind, a match had been struck creating a burning idea that I could not blow out. 

         I was going to write about a girl who has lived her whole life in space, and Is finally going to live on Earth for the first time. I quickly looked for the remote control and turned off the television, running upstairs and turning on my laptop. I started jotting down the ideas that came to me, the character and who she was gonna be. After I had everything written down, I finally ran my fingers through the keyboard and began typing. 

         The first draft looked awful, especially cause I hadn’t written science fiction in a long time. But after a few hours of editing, I saved the document and closed the laptop once again, only this time I had actually written something good. 

         I was satisfied with the story, feeling victorious that I had finally written something that I was actually interested in writing. It had been as if something had taken over me, my fingers typing, keeping up with the stream of thoughts that rushed in every second. 

After so many years of avoiding this, it had been easier than I had thought. It was as if my mind already knew what to do, I was ready to complete the story even before I had an idea of what it was going to be about.

That night, I sent in the story to my teacher. She had given me feedback, giving me a B, saying the story was too predictable. I was shocked at first, and then angry. I had worked so hard on it and it wasn't enough. I was once again questioning myself and whether or not I deserved to be in the class.

As I lied in bed that night, my eyelids heavy and my mind ready to drift off, I had realized that my teacher was right. Even if I had put my heart into the story, it didn't mean that it was good enough. I had written a story that had great details but it was too predictable. The audience already knew she was going to Earth, so I decided to do the opposite.

The next morning, I started writing an alternative ending. One where the main protagonist lives in space because of a rare condition and her one wish is to go to Earth for one day. The day that she is supposed to travel, she dies in her sleep. It sounded sad, but it was also real. Sometimes dreams are meant to be just that: dreams.

I sent in and my teacher said that it fit in much better and that she would readjust my grade. I had fought through my urges and doubts and finally had done something I had never even thought of doing before. I was a writer, I could write fiction. I may not have been the best, but I was a writer and I did deserve to be in that class.