She was a very inconsiderate person, this author. She wrote me flawed. She made me smart but not beautiful, kind but not extremely so, understanding but unsympathetic at times, friendly but not social, and unabashedly opinionated. It is quite a burden, you know. I go around preaching my opinions as though I’ve held them for years in stone, I have interesting conversations with men who go on to fall for my beautiful best friend, and I overcome challenges but rarely get praised for it. It’s like she forgot I was in a book, and wrote me suited to reality. I could’ve had Arya Stark’s direwolf, Helen of Troy’s beauty, and Elizabeth Bennet’s loveable rebelliousness, but no, I get to be Anne, plain and realistic.
Written for the prompt: Write a story about yourself from the perspective of an object, thing, animal, or another person.
I started this blog because I wanted to write stories for girls like myself. I wanted to write about love and life, about loss and sorrow, about unbound happiness, about hopes and dreams, about the dread of growing old alone and the struggle of overcoming the fear of loneliness, about find your purpose in life and knowing that a job is just a part of life, about complicated relationships with food and clothing and shoes, about loving your parents and being annoyed with them, and about all the other issues that keep girls like myself awake at night but we deal with better by reading how there are other girls like us going through the same thing.
I fear I have not covered much ground but I know I have made a start, and for now perhaps, that will do.
This post is a response to the Daily Prompt: Why did you start your blog?
It was a day to write. The uncontrollable urge to write had taken hold of Jane and refused to let go, much like an annoying girlfriend who wants to ‘talk’ when all you want to do is grab a beer, let your belly relax, and watch sports.
Jane knew she wouldn’t be able to rest unless she penned something down. But what? She was uninspired. She tried watching a movie, it barely touched her imagination. She listened to music but couldn’t focus on any of the lyrics. She read ten pages of a new book but couldn’t remember a single word afterwards. She went outside to take a walk, all the faces looked the same to her. She looked around to admire beautiful architecture but saw only monotone. She visited the park, the leaves looked dead. She sat at her favourite cafe, the coffee tasted weak.
Disappointed and still restless, she started to head back home. She was almost at her apartment when she spotted an adorable little kid walking towards her with an even more adorable tiny corgi pup in her hands. The kid was so little that she almost seemed to be the same size as the pup. Her mother (Jane assumed) was standing next to her talking to someone. It was an endearing sight – the pup kept trying to escape the little girl’s tiny hands and she kept hoisting it back up each time it succeeded. She giggled with glee at each attempt the pup made for freedom and with even more joy when she had him back in her chubby little arms. The pup seemed to be having the time of his life too, wagging his itsy tail ferociously.
Jane smiled. This was it. This was the reason she tried so hard to write even when she was uninspired. Muse kept evading her but it brought her pleasure to try. As she walked past the kid, Jane give her a quick wave. The little girl responded by sticking her tongue out. Jane continued smiling and made it home.
She sat at her desk and started on random ideas one by one. Most of them went into the trash can but a few stayed in the ‘work on it later’ pile. Jane smiled again. Perhaps her magnum opus wasn’t in today’s work but she could resolutely say she was a step closer. And that restless feeling? It was gone for now, but she really hoped it would find her again tomorrow.