The Night I Didn’t Want to be a Writer

​“Whyyy am I writer?” I moaned in a text my fellow classmate, Amanda. The day before I’d only written two pages of my short story in two hours, and didn’t know where I was going from there. After a four hour shift in the kitchen, I smelled like grease and garlic. How I was going to write six more pages that night, I had no idea.

After showering, thankfully I smelled more like lemon sage and peppermint—but garlic still lingered on my fingers. They don’t tell you to put two layers of gloves when dealing with garlic, but now I know. My eyes drooped as I pulled my laptop on my bed. Where was my charger? I scrambled through my backpack, searching every pocket. It wasn’t there. I never forget my charger, my laptop barely works without it. But sure enough, I’d left it in the classroom, ten minutes walk away. It was already getting late, but I had no choice.

On the way down, my text to Amanda echoed in my mind. Why am I writer? I knew these moments were the real life of an author. Exhaustion, deadlines, it wasn’t glamorous.

God, I’m tired and don’t want to do this, I prayed on the way down the hill. Orange lamps lit the sidewalk with an eerie tone. I remembered other late nights I’d actually taken the time to pray before I started an assignment in university. This couldn’t be different. God was the same now as He was back then.

… But I believe that ten minutes talking to you is going to be more productive than ten minutes staring at a screen. You know what to do. You can help. 

As I finally climbed the stairs to our classroom, I wondered out-of-the-blue what it would be like if I changed the font on my story from Times New Roman to something that looked like handwriting. The day before, I’d been stuck editing and re-editing instead of just writing (symptoms of a perfectionist). I always wrote well with a pen, but I didn’t have time for that. I grabbed my charger. Please, help me write, I pleaded, and started the walk back up the hill.

That night I changed the font, started typing, and didn’t stop—not until the clock pulled me to my pillow.

My fingers still had a hint of garlic, but they had completed their mission.

Not only that, I knew why I was a writer.

Despite all the frustration, roadblocks, and loopholes… 

I loved it.