Fifteen

Fifteen hundred words. Not a problem, she thought as she poured her first cup of coffee and sat at her breakfast island. Dressed in her rumpled sleep shirt and pants, her hair in a messy ponytail, she booted up her laptop.

A little harder than it used to be, she thought as she popped down a slice of bread in the toaster and wandered the kitchen thinking about those fifteen hundred words.

It had seemed easier in middle school when she would fill those little composition books with stories for her girlfriends. Little essays about them and their boyfriends at the time. She smiled as she buttered the toast and took it and her coffee cup back to her laptop. She sat at the little breakfast bar and thought back. Back to Lisa and Brent, to Mindy and Wes and the five thousand words she wrote for Connie and Chad.

Those were the days, she thought as she stared at the blank page before her. Essays were her forte then. Before life got in the way. Before single motherhood and raising a child, now grown with a child of her own. Before working for a living and taking care of a house. Essays had come to her like the morning dew to the flower. When she could write essays without thinking about the words at all.

She took a bite of toast and closed her eyes. Essays that took no thought. It was if the words simply arrived on the paper straight from her mind to her fingertips. There was no thinking about it. Of course, back then, she wrote more with paper and pen, rather than keyboard and monitor. Those days she didn’t have to squeeze in the writing before going off to work at eight. She didn’t have to clean the house or go grocery shopping. All she had to do back then was go to school and write.

She finished off her toast and glared at the blank page. Come on, she thought as she went to start a load of laundry. Just think of it as a writing sprint. See what happens when you put words on the page.

Yeah, but the problem is, she argued with herself as she started the washing machine. What words? What words do I want to type? Will anyone want to read them? Will they make any sense to anyone besides me?

She glared at the blank page as she sat back down in the barstool.

Upon a dark and stormy night, she typed. Then, deleted it. Real original, she thought.

It was a bright and sunny day, she typed. Then, deleted it. Uh huh, she thought.

It could be hard to tell a story, she typed. Then…paused, her finger above the delete key. She didn’t delete it.

Okay, she thought. Type. She set a timer for fifteen minutes and just typed. She didn’t read it, she didn’t pay attention to what she was typing, she just let her fingers glide over the keyboard and type whatever they wanted.

It felt good, she thought, kind of like yoga for the fingers. They needed the exercise, she grinned. They hadn’t been getting out much lately. She laughed. She knew the feeling.

The timer went off. Her fingers paused over the keyboard and she took a deep breath before reading the words on the page.

Yuck. She thought. Well, maybe not that bad. She continued reading. Okay, I could possibly work with this.

Just as she’d typed the seven hundred and twentieth word, her work alarm went off. She groaned as she saved the document and went to get ready for work.

Every time, she thought as she turned on the water in the shower. I just get into a groove and have to get ready for work. She let her hair down and took a shower. Thinking about the words she had written that day. After drying off and before getting dressed, she found a notepad and hand wrote the next words in her story. Should help getting into the groove a little easier tomorrow, she thought.

As she put her makeup on, she thought of more words. If only, she thought, if only I could stay home all day and write. But, as of now, writing didn’t pay the bills. Not yet. She dried her hair and put it into a twist, something suitable for her office job. Soon, she thought. I could stay home all day and not have to get dressed. She laughed. It felt good to dream. But… Dreaming didn’t pay the bills.

She’d dreamed of being a writer ever since she was a little girl. She was hardly ever without a pencil and paper. But then, college ended up being too expensive and she had to let go of her dream. It’s never too late, she told herself as she entered the parking garage at work. If you don’t go after something you want, you’ll never get it. So, she’d gotten back into the habit of writing every morning. Sit in the chair and put words on the page. As she locked her car, she chuckled. Even if they’re not very good words, she thought. Time to get into work mode, she entered the building and put the thought of writing back on the back burner.

The next morning, coffee cup in hand and notepad next to her laptop, she booted up the computer and put half of a bagel in the toaster. Today, she thought, as she glanced at the clock. Today is the day I make it to fifteen hundred words, she thought. I have a full hour. She glanced at her handwritten words as she opened the document she’d started the day before.

She took a bite of bagel and typed the words she’d handwritten the day before. Her fingers flew over the keyboard. She didn’t go back to correct misspellings or grammar issues, she just let the words flow.

Beautiful, she thought. Of course, I haven't read it yet. As her alarm to get ready for work went off and she looked at her word count. One thousand five hundred and two. Yay, she grinned. Now, if they’re any good, I’ll feel as good about it as I did at the tender age of fifteen.