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I The Writer
Title: I The Writer
Author: HEvans
What makes a good writer? What makes the perfect story, the one that everyone has to read? Is it a good character? Is it a believable plot?
“Hannah!” I dropped my pen and frowned
“Damn” I muttered as I pushed my chair out and switched off my music “WHAT?”
“Dinner” she replied to my harsh tone. I hated writers block and I hated being here, I had a million ideas but no way to put them down on paper. I ended up writing about what a writer’s life is like.
“Did you go to college today Hann?” asked mom as I sat down next to my middle sister Kat
“Yes mom, I did,” I said for the second time today. Of course I lied, I didn’t go to that stupid place. A lot of writers what the degrees and the acknowledgment but for me it meant bending to my moms will. I hated her running my life so I did what I could to disobey her; I was a coward because I disobeyed her behind her back.
Instead of college I went to bars, I can see her reaction to finding out her well-to-do daughter in a beatnik bar. I go there for the coffee and sometimes to listen to the music, none of them can sing though. I sit there and listen to them sing through the smoke of the hashish cigarettes.
“What did you learn at college?” she brought me back out of my little daydream. I was sat there holding the ladle for the gravy.
“Huh oh we’re working on one to Ones at the moment” it was so easy to lie to her. I just didn’t think about it
“Good girl. I’m glad you’re going to college, you’re really smart and you can have a good job. You can become a doctor like me as soon as you loose this silly writers phase you seem to have picked up” she said and I nodded like a puppet. I was seething inside this was no phase. This was what I wanted to do I loved the attention. When I was eleven I had a poem published in a book. The feeling of having something in print and a lot of people reading it, it gave me a buzz and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I guess a doctor got the same feeling when he saved someone’s life or when a footballer scored the last goal that won the game.
“What are you going to do after dinner Hann?” she asked me using the nickname I despised
“Oh not much might go to my room and listen to music”
“And write” she concluded. She put down the mash potato with a bang and I jumped that was one of the reasons I was a coward. How can you stand up to someone who would hit you if you said your mind? Free speech doesn’t live here
“I wish you would just grow up and stop such childish things. Writers don't get much for their trouble. Are you going to sit at that damn processor all the time and ignore the world” I just sat there.
“Don't give me the silent treatment!” she spat. I didn’t move and didn’t speak, any answer would be the wrong one and I wasn’t stupid “Say something because I’m getting angry now” I began crying because I was so afraid for what she would do “Go to your room before I punch you” I stood up and moved quickly. I walked out the room and I sighed a breath of relief as I hurried up the stairs back to my room. Sixteen and afraid.
I looked down at the little book I had my poem in and smiled, I was a writer. She didn’t know I had it published and if she did she would have had a go at me for not using my real name. I had a pen name because if they ever found out then no one would miss Hannah Scott if anything happened to me. When I wrote I was Lil Evans and that was what I told the people I befriended in the seedy bars looking for that perfect story. I sat down on my bed and picked a book out from my bookshelf. Lil Evans at the bottom of the cover and I lay on my bed and read it.
I don't know why my mom hating all things literary but I knew she had a passion for the very few Lil Evans books that came out. It was rather ironic really; she didn’t want me to write yet she moaned every time for the next instalment to I The Writer.
The End
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Writings is my life. Without it I'd draw!
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