The page remained an unforgiving shade of white. For hours she’d stared at it, glaring brightly back at her, taunting her lack of progress. She’d been told she’d made a mistake, the life of a writer was not one that she could survive on. She heard these things while blazing through the newest Best Seller on the NY Times reading list. Oprah made millions on a book club membership for people to tell her that becoming a writer wasn’t lucrative.
She’d always had to defend her passion. The bubbly loud mouth would always simmer down when you placed a good story in her hands. Her brows furrowed glasses dangling from the bridge of her nose. She would momentarily immerse herself in a world of fantasy.
Where knights risked everything for true love and the pursuit of a good battle. Magic could be used to force sides, all things were possible. She allowed herself to believe this, because closing the book she was shown all things were not possible. She was told that if you don’t move fast enough opportunities will pass you by.
Told that her caramel colored skin made her desire to dress up in costumes unacceptable; that not enough people shared her interests for her to survive on sheer passion alone. It was unwise not to look for other venues or to refine her visions to match other people’s aspirations because her aspirations were too ambitious.
She often wondered if she was lighter or a man if any one would have ever told her that she was too ambitious. Wondered how much of her writing those “advising” her actually read. She been writing one thing or another everyday since she figured out how to hold a pen. She wondered sometimes rhetorically, how many dreams they had pushed aside because someone said so.
Looking up she noticed that her page was no longer a blank face staring at her but a fluid moving entity that grew as she allowed her heart to spill into the keyboard. Her words stretched across the screen marching in time with the beat of her heart. Her words, that they’d often told her she’d used too many of, could no longer be ignored.
She never needed the wealth or fame that would naturally come. She needed to know that her voice mattered, forgetting the only person it needed to matter to was the one using it.