A New Story
“The purpose of a storyteller is not to tell you how to think but to give you questions to think upon.”
Sometimes you just need a reset button, Sam thought, sitting in the courtyard of her university. She could feel the cool grass beneath her hands, which rested on the edge of the shadow the clock tower cast; a stark contrast to the rest of her body, slightly sweating in the early September sun.
She let out a little sigh, looking at her book list for this year. Sam loved changing her major from History to English, but she never imagined having to read 400 page books in a week. And she had three English classes! “I’m glad one of those classes is writing,” she said out loud to no one in particular.
Writing wasn’t a hobby for Sam, or something she just wanted to learn. It was an obsession that had grabbed hold of her in her ninth grade year and had yet to loosen its grip. As she got up from the grassy embankment and walked toward the campus bookstore, she hoped her writing class this year wouldn’t be like the one she attended briefly the semester before.
Last spring semester, she had just changed her major, and all the literature classes were full, so she decided to take an introductory poetry writing class. She bought her pencils and her moleskin notebooks and rushed to her first session. When she got there, one seat was open, and she grabbed it. She looked around, smiling at all her fellow aspiring writers, and as she moved from face to face, she met his eyes — green, intense orbs that seemed to have their own gravitational pull. She forced herself to look away.
Sam never felt that kind of attraction to someone before. Short hair and short in stature, he still commanded a room. His ideas were out there and his poetry was abstract, but she fell for it all. Her poetry seemed mediocre at best next to his. Her confidence plummeted, and Sam began to doubt her ability to support her obsession. Maybe she just didn’t have the talent for this.
No more thinking about that, she thought. This year will be different. This year, I am going to write, and I’m not going to let anyone think I’m not good enough. Sam looked down at the tattoo on her wrist, her mantra, I am enough, scrawled out in old typewriter font – her constant reminder to fend of mediocrity at every turn. Her pace picked up, and she could hear her footfalls echo off the campus buildings. It’s time to write a new story. Then, she smiled.
To Be Continued….
