Anywhere, I suppose

One foot’s crooked like a scythe, hanging over the seat in front of me. My purple Vans sketching imaginary scribbles in the air as my fingers practically vibrate over each key with excitement at the prospect of a new story.

Then there’s the early morning burst of energy where magically two stories appear in my notes app, and I’ve got no clue where they came from or when I wrote them. When my mom comes upstairs, if I’m still writing, I’ll prolong the agony of putting down my pen and getting ready for school by yelling, “Mom! I’m a struggling author, and unless you want me leaving here forever, you’ll want me to finish my story.” It’s never worked.

I suppose there’s also the doodles on the back of my history test, curly cursive cresting over non-lined paper. At that point, it’s only three sentences jotted down about character development in the tenth chapter, but if I can just get two more words down before the bell, Mr. G, I promise it’ll be worth it.

And of course there’s the angry scrawl across new notebook paper in the middle of English because maybe this one will be the one. The one that finally buys me a real desk instead of the wall panel in the restaurant because the sunset was so magestic not to be captured in written word. The one that buys real quills and ink jars to write like the old, dead poets intended. The one that English teachers fawn over and college professors mull over and students reluctantly, yet gleefully, pore over.