This is how I feel sometimes during the middle of the school year and I have about six assignments to write... This particular short story is inspired by 'The Writer' by Ellie Goulding of which I listen to when I'm in this situation. Only thing is that the exciting stuff doesn't happen. Bummer. :P
Short Story #6: The Writer
There, another paragraph finished. I looked at the pile of assignments that I had to go through and wished they were just story plots I had to write into novels. The common misconception with my schooling was my friends thought because I wrote novels that my English marks would be through the roof. The simple fact is that no, they’re not.
A fail here, barely a pass there; my life is a rollercoaster. With basically every writing competition I get some kind of award but schooling the only sky-high marks I receive are in Japanese, a subject in which I find a high level of interest. Each evening after a stressful day of school I get hounded because of spending all my homework time doing Japanese and writing novels. The temptation is too great.
Night seeps through the edges of my blinds, choking the weak light that my lamp casts around the room. My brain throbs from being worked too hard but despite working the assignments for the past two weeks I still get behind. Tomorrow was the hand-in date.
My pen tapped against the table until I finally sighed and got up. Walking through the backyard I sat on the swing chair and pulled my knees up, wrapped my arms around them and held them tight. I heard a twig snap somewhere but it wasn’t until two arms circled around me that I realized there was someone there.
“Hello,” I said, knowing very well who just snuck up on me. He walked around the swing and sat beside me, weaving his fingers through mine. The stars twinkled above like diamonds on a piece of black velvet. “What are you doing here?” He smiled and tucked away a loose strand of hair, my skin tingling.
“Inspiring you,” he said, tapping my nose. “You can do it. You’re smart and beautiful. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you could.” Happiness spread through me, greater than what any writing on a page could give me. I sat up straight, a bolt of inspiration sizzled in my mind like a sausage on a barbeque mid-summer. I pecked him on the cheek and ran inside, sitting at the desk and watched my fingers fly.
I was a writer after all.