❝But are we all lost stars
trying to light up the dark?❞
— Adam Levine, Lost Stars
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HE, THE WRITER
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The cliché of writing a story that everyone already knew was our protagonist's biggest fear. Not that the integrity of a good tale enraptured him; just that, he was too proud to fail. To him, being like everyone else was failing. That's why he started writing in the first place. It was his big fuck you to the Man. Hey, I created worlds too—ones far more entertaining and unique than yours. 18 years of success made him both arrogant and demanding. Every piece he wrote had to be bigger, more controversial, more famous than the previous. No way he was regressing at 18, especially when a story could earn him unprecedented bragging rights among his new university crowd.
In his AP Lit teacher's words, "Novels are nothing but interesting manipulations of the truth."
That was his gift.
Words.
He had the uncanny ability to tell a story that sells—one that makes a mark, a splash— regardless of how far off it was from the truth. The right words, structure and delivery were his weapons and wielded them he did.
Unlike most stories, he wasn't the popular kid everyone loved because he was good at what he did. He was far more normal than that. I'd like to say he got the girls, but who was I kidding? He barely even dated anyone. Hell, I wouldn't. Would you date someone who might turn your mishaps into the next great bestseller? Nah, not me. Next. Truth be told, high school wasn't where he wanted to make a mark anyway. High school was his training ground for the big leagues, college— NYU.
Okay so it wasn't Ivy League, but it's artist central. Students breathed in freedom and creativity and style. There wasn't a stone they wouldn't turn for art's sake. He fit right in. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for, a chance to be recognized in the throng of his own people. No more mindless chatter of homecoming dance dates and football games. He made it, well almost.
He needed a story.
It's almost to the end of his first term and nothing, nada. At first, he blamed the adjustments he had to make, like moving and finding the best coffee shop and dry cleaners, then the pile of schoolwork every prof stacked on his desk. They never seemed to remember that he had other courses that term. Then it was reviewing for the midterms fault and now, reviewing for the finals. He felt like he was merely going through motions, excuses, everything except writing that next big story that was gonna set him apart from everyone else in this severely artistic community.
It never happened to him before but he, Luke Vance, had writer's block. He was fucked.
Not so easy making up worlds now, was it?
YOU ARE READING
In Her Words
General Fiction"When he first heard her, he knew. She was his bestseller." Before there were great stories, there were only words. Luke's were smart and eloquent but hollow. It was nothing like Emma's story, bleak and awkward, but honest to a fault. This is a comi...
