This Is My Story

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6    Y E A R S  L A T E R

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I look out the window of the salon, where the leafs are now falling slowly from their majestic trees.

Everything is so loud around me and here I am, staring at the strangers in the street, absorbed in their own activities. I lick my lips as I pull the sleeves of my pullover over my hands.

I can faintly hear Jewels' voice in the background, chatting with her clients, but I am too concentrated on everything else: the cold, the smell of autumn and my thoughts. Today is particularly busy at the cosmetic salon and I am too caught in my thoughts to help Jewels with her little business. 

It happens to me a lot recently, whenever I'm not writing, the ideas in my heads keep hitting against each others, creating multiple collisions and stop me from functioning correctly. I'm getting used to it, but it is quite frustrating for someone as full of thoughts as I am.

I lightly tap the tip of my pen against my bottom lip as I turn my mug of coffee with my other hand.

Contrary to what one might think, I didn't become a lawyer.

Technically, I am a lawyer, since I've received my title rightfully, but I didn't work in law for long. The truth is that there is no absolute truth. I was so convinced that law is for me, that I was sure that I wanted to earn my ways in life with this profession but I was wrong on everything - or at least, at the end. I found myself lost in everything I did, my heart no longer belonged there and it took me quite a time to realize it. My pride was stopping me from giving up on all I've worked so long for, but I finally gave in. Being a lawyer was maybe once my wish, but it didn't make me happy anymore.

On the other hand, the book I published knew a small success - but a success nonetheless. It was very local and I was mostly known in my own city, but it was already a start. My publisher agreed to sign me a long term contract and it keeps me going until know. I'm still writing clumsily but the people who reads my works say that the improvements are apparent and progressive.

How ironic is that? I never though of myself as a writer and I once told him that if any of us should write people's stories, it should be him but here I am, sitting at the edge of a window in a cosmetic salon, waiting for inspiration to hit me.

My phone buzzes on the table beside me and I take a look at it, smiling at the sight of a picture of Graham carving a pumpkin with his girlfriend. Unlike me, he has tried to pursue his own dream and fled to Canada, leaving everything behind him. He has tried to pierce the world of sport, trying out for several teams, but he soon realized that it led him to nowhere and decided to coach for a local team in his neighbourhood. He still is now and is also teaching in an elementary school, where he met his fiancé, Florina. We occasionally Skype and he often texts me but it's hard to keep in touch when we're that far apart.

I put my phone down and write down a few ideas messily in my notebook before returning to my thinking state.

I have to admit, writing is hard. When you're inspired, it's amazing, your ideas sliding perfectly, from your head to your fingers, forming perfect sentences, ideas materially giving your work life. It gives you a satisfying feeling of accomplishment.

When nothing comes to mind, it is hell. You're forcing yourself to come up with ideas and it comes out all wrong and it makes you want to pull your hair out of your head and you end up erasing, deleting everything, starting all over again for perhaps the hundredth time.

But that's still what I chose to do and I adapt to it. It was a radical change at first, but I'm slowly getting the hang of it, finding the time when the inspiration comes easier, the places that makes me think more clearly, the music that helps me build my plot, my characters. It is now a routine for me and it feels good.