It's different for everyone
I crumble up the last story I had written, my sister didn't like it (doesn't matter, her opinion doesn't count) but my friends also didn't like it. Ouch.
Time to burn my tears, instead of shedding them. With the lighter, I took the crumbled paper and shoved them into a metal bowl. And lit it. No matter, if I ever wanted them back I just had to jump on the computer were they're saved.
Watching the flames eat at the paper, made me more determined (something I hoped would happen) it was good to watch. Until Mom came in with the fire extinguisher.
I was NOT trying to burn the house down.
But, that's ok. It was mostly burned anyway.
Sitting down on my bed with a pencil, and my notebook (not the computer, "dork sister" e-mailing "dork boyfriend") I thought about my last NOT best seller. It was a story of how the girl found this dog and, happy ever after…
Yeah, I know.
Stupid story. Dragged. Way longer then there was to write about. And there was no point to it. Plus I knew nothing about dogs. So how could I write about them?
It was only know, that I could admit failure.
I looked down at my paper, while I was thinking, I was drawing. I hadn't really realized I was, and it caught my eye.
It was a picture of a girl at a desk, with a computer knocked on the floor at her feet. She writing a story in her own hand writing, it was only a page long, and it was words from the girl's heart. (At least that's what I imagined it was…) as she wrote it, flames were lapping at the page, burning it. on the floor other pages were on fire. Other stories, that didn't work out.
It was a very good drawing, it inspired me, it made me want to forget, and start all over. At the top of the page a took my pencil and labeled the picture as "Out of the Fire, and into the fire, again." It really made me want to get burned.
I pinned the drawing to the wall above my bed, and started writing a new story.
This time it was a short story, it only came to a little over a page. It was only the words I wanted to write, which were few, but I meant them.
It was a story of a girl who found herself not being herself. She wanted to write stories, but failed horrible at it.
This story was easy and came to me so smoothly, because it was a story I knew better then anyone ells.
A dream is something you make up in your head
It's different for everyone
Something that never becomes reality
With imagination, forever it can be true
Don't grow up, and let the world change you mind
If you believe that all that matters
Don't hide your thoughts,
Scream them out
Never stop saying what you think is real
With imagination, forever it can be true
My "dork sister" liked this story, and that felt good.