Veronique Badin, that…

Best-selling author of the New York Times, whose work has been adapted into award-winning movies, has chosen hers in a pool of random names. Safi was about to have lunch with an icon! This had to be her lucky day of the year.

When they took a seat at a booth in the café, Safi opened up by singing her praises. Telling Veronique how much she admired her work and that how it changed her, a real sucker this girl. 

“I’m glad you feel that way,” said Veronique. “As I’m honoured by the compliments. But something tells me you didn't apply for the contest just to butter up my ass. Did you, sweetheart?

Safi bit on her lip and shook her head. “I have… I need your advice.” She waited for an indication to continue and when Veronique nodded she kept going. “I signed up for this course on how to write a novel, and on the first day I was asked a question: Why write?”

There was a beat. And a second one. Then, a third one.

“I can’t answer it.” 

Miss Badin raised a brow and “Mmhed”.

Wow, her eyes were so blue. Something between sky and sea blue. Yeah, that's it. They stood out from her pale porcelain skin. Wrinkled porcelain, yet not any less gorgeous. Stoïc, cold beauty.

“What’s stopping you from finding your answer?” she asked, crossing her hands on the table.

“That’s where I’m lost. The instructor said that if we don't enjoy the process, it’s not worth it. But if we do it for money, fame and all that, it’s even worse.”

“They want you to have a stone-like purpose. A grounded drive.”

“I suppose.”

Veronique considered her answer, which wasn't really one, then said; “Ok. To understand the present we must go to the past. What got you to write in the first place?”

“I don’t—”

“Ah-ah, don't say you don't know. It doesn't have to make sense. Just find that moment. What hot you to it?”

“It’s a bit of a…long story.”

Miss Badin arched a brow like one of her famous protagonists always did. “But that’s no trouble. We are storytellers, aren't we?” she whispered winking, and Safi chuckled, and that helped her gather enough courage to begin.

“As a kid, I was in love with… dance. Contemporary, ballet, anything as long as I could move my body to the music. But I’m from an immigrant family and not to say that immigrant families don't have money it’s just… mine had little. Paying for anything that wouldn't secure a steady job was never on the table. 

“You gave up on your dream.”

Safi shook her head, and looked down at her hands when she said; “You can’t give up on something you never had. I just accepted my reality.“

The words were left suspended in the air and she sighed heavily. 

“Anyway, I grew up but developed this…melancholy, sense of emptiness. I tried other artistic paths but nothing excited me. And when you’re an adult it seems society doesn't want you to try things. If you can’t excel at it‘s a waste of time.“

She almost left it at that. The more she spoke the more pathetic she felt, but Veronique appeared…interested?

“That’s when I found words. I read a lot and realised I could somewhat write. So, I typed and typed for hours. Losing myself in a bubble in these stories that start and end on the tip of my fingers. It’s… something.”

Safi saw herself, huddled in her bedroom, eyes glued on that screen, neck and back cramping from her forever poor posture, writing. 

A retained smile stretched her lips.

“I’ll assume you only write fiction, correct?”

“Up to now, yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s fiction. It’s fake. Sure it has a part of reality in it, you don’t invent the feelings. But they’re not mine, or at least not completely.”

This was hard. Difficult to explain. 

“I know I might come off as unserious or not involved in world problems—whatever that means. But thing is… I can escape my sorrow by creating characters who go through rough times, channelling that sadness into them. Just as I can foul myself into happiness by making their life a bliss. Give them the courage I don't have. The opportunities I never will.”

It was fo her sort of remedy. A coping mechanism maybe.

“But no matter how much time I spend, or how hard I work, I still can't take myself seriously.”

“Why?”

Goodness! Was that all she could say, why, why and why? 

“Because I suck. It’s not easy.”

The waiter had come with their order and Veronique started to drink from her cup. “Nobody ever said siter’s life was easy.” 

“Yes but with me it’s worse.” She picked on a bagel and rather rageously took a bite. “Usually writers struggle but they make it. And sometimes they’re proud of their work, I’m… not.”

“You can change with practice. Approach your mentor with these issues.”

“I don'thave a mentor. The course is only for a few days.”

“But you’re a student, right?”

She nodded. “Majoring in computer programming.”

Now right there, Safi knew she’d shock her. She could see it in the way Veronique’s fingers froze over the table, stopping the little taps they’d been doing.

“I need a degree that’ll land me a job to pay the bills,” she explained sheepishly. 

“Writing doesn't?”

“Not for me, no,” she said, before adding in a less amused tone. “Not for many people. It’s ok though. Being a professional writer sounds so stressful.”

“Then, what is it that you want, Safi?”

If we have to be honest, this question has tormented her for years now. Yet she still couldn't think of it without having a twist deep in her stomach. What did she want now? Why was she here?

“Tell stories,” she finally broke the silence. “I want to make others feel what I feel when these… odd tales pop in my mind. I like telling them.”

“Then do it.”

“I can’t.” yes, she hated the whiny edge in her voice. “I just can't. It’s not working.”

Veronique sighed heavily and Safi didn’t know if she should feel proud or concerned for being the cause of it. “In this case Miss Ndombe, I don’t know what I can do for you.”

Yes, there was. Yes there is.

“Tell me to stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me to stop,” she repeated louder this time. “I couldn't become a dancer because we didn't have money, I couldn't do theatre or be a musician ‘cause I’m too old to start… each time, I was told why it wouldn't work.” 

Slowly, she looked back up at Veronique who seemed completely aghast. “You’ve been in this business for long. You have to tell me why I would never make it. You have to tell me that I’m a pathetic excuse of a writer.”

Veronique’s brows creased deeply and she pulled back her hands from the table. 

“Please. I need to hear it to move on.”

There was a pause. No one said anything for a while and Safi held her breath, waiting for her sentence. The busy room suddenly felt calm, the sunlight peeking through the window, cold. This was it. The day she’d be set free. Delivered from this urge to write. It was coming, any time now.

“In his essay titled ’Why I Write‘, George Orwell, outlines four potential reasons why anyone might do it.”

Wait, what? 

“One of them was ’Sheer egoïsm’.” she smiled down at her, left a bill on the table and got up. “I can’t tell you to stop sweetheart. Partly because even if I do, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will. I’m great at giving up.”

Her protest didn't work as Miss Badin was already walking away and Safi felt her freedom slip between her fingers.

“Hold up!” she called out, leaving her seat. “May I ask why do you write?”

Veronique peered at her above her shoulder and smirked. Safi was slightly taken aback as it was the first of all their talk.

“That is an answer you’re not ready for.”

***

A couple of years after that, and Safi has graduated. She works on a nine-to-five job which occasionally turns to a nine-to-seven and she still writes. Stories that never leave her laptop, of course.

Either way, one day, after kicking off her bras and shoes, she slumped on the couch and opened her phone. Veronique Pierrot announced a new book release.

Safi clicked on the article, scrolled down and saw the cover—wich had to be the epitome of absurdity in the history of literature. 

In it, a girl, under stage lights, was wearing the most gorgeous tutu while balancing a typewriter on her head. And just when Safi didn't think it could get any more laughable, there was the title: The Mind of a Writer Stuck in a Performer’s Soul. 

Let’s just say that her reaction was a very long and dramatic gasp.

“That bicth!”