Unprivileged

Chapter 2.

On my way back home, I figured I could use some quality time for myself, alone. So I went to the beach and sat there for a good two hours until the sun was beginning to set and I was left with nothing but a question. 

The sky is looking clear. It's not very windy today, which is unusual and odd. I sit down on the warm sand and put my backpack beside me. I could do this forever. I could just sit here and watch the sky and the ocean. Observe their beauty and stillness. But damn it, I didn't come for that. Not today.

I made a deal with myself:

I have packed in my bag a notebook. And I'm planning to write. This was the only way to get myself to do it. I tried to do so at home but for some reason it didn't work. At school? Well there's Carrie and there are teachers and noise and every other possible thing that could distract me. So at last, I'm trying this out. I'm trying the beach as an environment of inspiration and a bit of quiet. Carrie does not know about this. She's oblivious that the reason I'm late to catch up on the Legends series is because I have been doing stuff and trying to write. I am trying to keep as secretive as I can. I know for sure that she will kill me if she finds out that I'm doing something this big behind her back.

With a breathe-in and a breathe-out, I take out the previously mentioned notebook and a pen. It feels rather cheesy and a bit out of my comfort zone. I hate to write with my own hand but hell, what other options do I have? I'm so used to type in on my laptop. It's beneficial: No typos. No ugly, left-handed writing. I'd better get used to it and probably type it on my laptop when I get back home. All I need to focus on now is to take the first step and write something to begin with.

Okay. First page. First chapter. Wait..do I need a prologue? Yes, idiot, you can't just jump in. Oh! I don't even have a title yet. Okay Ace, just relax. Think about..something..meaningful? Ugh! Bullshit. Okay! What about an important aspect of..life? What the actual heck! No. Okay. A love story? Ugh, cliché! Um..A hero with great super powers and a good haircut? Hell, that's Superman! Oh my God this is a lot harder than I thought it'd be! Okay, Ace, ask yourself a question: Who are you?

That did it for me. 

I'm back home now. Back in my room. I stormed into the house, not saying a word, and ran up the stairs as fast as I could to avoid everyone. My backpack and converse are thrown on the floor and I am laying face down on my bed. That question. That question. It's never leaving my mind. I did not write anything. My notebook, if you check it, is still empty. It's virgin to the words and thirsty for the ink. I don't understand what is wrong with me. I've always wanted to write a book, a proper book, but when I try, I don't know what to write about. I can't think of anything. Why did that question block my mind completely? Why do I not know who I am? I'm me. I should know. I should know who I am and what I feel passionate about. That's what humans do, how am I any different?

Questions. It's all I seem to do these days: ask and not get answered.

I pull my phone out of the pocket of my trousers and turn it on. No missed calls. 0 text messages. Great. I mean, it's not that I'm waiting for her to call me or anything. To be fair, I should be the one who calls and texts and she should be the one holding her phones in her sweaty hands and waiting, not the other way around. I rest the old fashioned phone on my bed stand and turn on my again old fashioned laptop. I have what seems to be 15 stars on my last book review and 3 messages to answer on my blog. Oh shit, I recall from last week that I have been asked to make covers for three newly written fanfiction on the internet and I completely forgot about it. Quickly, I send back messages to the authors telling them that I have been sick during the last few days and that I'm immediately going to work on the requested covers. This is another subject that Carrie does not know about. I read fanfiction and I seem quite good at making covers. I also make book and film reviews. The irony of it though. I can literally write anything but a real book of my own.

Ugh, not again. I complain when I see that it is yet another fanfiction based on that famous singer with the fake blue eyes. I don't even know his name. I think he's called James. There seems to be a million fanfiction about him out there. The fangirls are nuts. I like making a cover for a good story, one that I'd enjoy reading. A vampire fic for instance. Another one of a mysterious girl who goes around town collecting hearts and dragging them in the mud. I also like sequels made for the books that I've already read. Carrie hates them. She doesn't like to read this kind of stuff. "Anti electronic and audio books," she said once, "That's the kind of reader I am."

I press send, hoping that the third cover I made will please the author, close my laptop and head to bed. My phone buzzes. It's Carrie. 

Third book: Done. The text says.

You must be out of breath. I send back.

I'm dead sleepy. What are you up to? She replies.

Not much. you? I leave out the details of what I did today and send my overused reply: Not much.

Have you caught up on the hundred pages yet? She asks.

Not yet. Someone's in trouble.

Ace Carter: The world's slowest reader. I'm here to inform you that tomorrow I'm purchasing the forth book of Legends. She says.

Won't you wait for me? Give me 3 days. I'll catch up. I ask.

Two days.

Fine. 

Good night. 

I text good night back and fall asleep, dreaming of notebooks, questions, fanfic covers and a girl with blonde curly hair and green eyes.