That Sarcastic Writer

  The clock had finished tolling out the hour, and I knew it might already be too late. But I had to try. I sprinted down the hall and out across the deserted ballroom. “He didn’t steal the money” I blurted out, ignoring the startled murmurs from the crowd. You close the book, for once indulging your tired eyes. It’s 12 am and you’re bored. Your phone is charging in the corner of the room, which is probably why you picked up a book in the first place. Your 12-year-old self would be scandalized, you smile to yourself, but she would also be pretty amazed at the fact that you’re writing books now even if you’ve stopped reading them. Your eyes drift to the cover of the book resting on your lap, ‘Nancy Drew’. You’ve read this particular book before, more than once, but you find yourself enjoying it every single time you do. That’s just the magic of this series. The reason you started writing fiction. The reason you have a completed novel saved on your laptop and probably part of the r...

  A steaming hot cup of coffee sits at your desk, the smoke curling upward and fading into the air. A couple of notebooks are haphazardly thrown across the second shelf. You make a mental note to arrange them in a less messy manner while also acknowledging the fact that they will probably remain where they are for the next three weeks. You tap your fingers on your thigh, hoping against hope that the random movement will kickstart your brain. I mean, it worked before, right? you tell yourself, continuing the catchy rhythm. The empty word doc stares at you, mocking you and egging on your self-doubt. Are you even really a writer? Or were those genius pieces of fiction a stroke of luck that you will never be able to replicate again? You don’t know and you are scared to find out. You sit up straight. The idea that had been lurking in the shadowy corners of your mind has finally come out of hiding. But before it leaves its mark on the word doc, it must fight its way through the dozens ...