It's been cloudy and overcast all day today, with scattered showers here and there. The soft, sandy dirt is a comfortable peat-like texture that feels exilharating on bare feet, and the scattered piles of mulch in my yard are damp enough so they don't poke me. The temperature is not too cool, not too warm, with a deliciously balmy breeze fluttering through the grape leaves twisted around the lattice. I sit there on the bench underneath the skinny maple tree, listening to Flyleaf's "So I Thought." The notebook is balanced precariously on top of my crossed legs, while my faithful orange BIC Velocity pencil waits patiently for the words to come. The page is blank except for the header: "Chapter Six: 'Once you've been in the dark as long as I have, it can't surprise you anymore.'" I know what's going to happen. I just don't know how to make it happen.
Ah, writer's block. It's enough to make one feel quite useless. Especially when I work on my stories so hard because I feel like they're the one shot I have at making a difference in this world. My friends are the proud, the few. I barely get comments on any site I've ever been on--I'm lucky to get a total of three on a post, story, or status update. I barely get half as many listeners on my radio show as compared to my dad or any one of his friends. In the back of my mind, I think maybe, just maybe, if I can get at least one book published, then I'll make a difference. But the truth is, I know deep down inside I could probably count the sold copies on one hand. Why? Because only my friends would buy my book. Only my friends comment, and only my friends listen to my radio show. I could just send them copies of my work and never get my book published anyway. So, when I'm hit hard with writer's block, I ask myself, What's the point?
My dad keeps telling me that I should finish my book because it's going to make a difference in the lives of my kids. That a guy would immediately snatch up a girl with 1) pretty long blonde hair, 2) a pure heart, and 3) several books published. And by getting a guy, that means kids, right? :(( The truth is, that the town I live in is full of punks who don't appreciate a girl like me. They don't like good, because good makes them feel guilty. Besides, they don't want to actually get married...they want to have their way with a girl and skip on to the next one. I probably wouldn't meeta "good guy" on the internet, either, because after several experiences in the past two years, I have a hard time trusting a guy's word, period, much less over the internet where lies are much easier to tell.
And days like these are the days where I wish I could still be in public school. It's crazy, I know (not to mention kinda stupid). But when I was over there in Mordor, I had lots of 'friends', lots of people who liked me, lots of fangirls, lots of fanboys, and lots of people who would actually listen to me when I talked. Plus, there's a lot more choices in the guy department. (Haha, now I sound like I'm comparing boys to shoes! XD ) I had lots of people I could help--lots of people who could talk to me and I would listen, lots of people I could give advice, lots of people I could give homework help, lots of people to share smiles with and brighten up their day. A hug. A handshake. A kiss... (And now I'm quoting Rogue.)
Those were the thoughts running through my head as I sat there in my backyard. I glared at the tree in front of me, as if I had something against it. But then I remembered something Zack told me, only a week ago. "If you lived your whole life suffering every day, and then one day you saved someone's life, is it worth a lifetime of suffering worth living to save that one person?" Not that I'm not really suffering anything worse than a bad case of melancholy, monotone mundanity. But it's true that I do make a difference, however small it may be. I make a difference with my dad's friends, because I know my way around the computer and can do amazing things with their episodes, their websites, and their logos. I make a difference with my friends in real life; I'm the one person who actually wants to be friends with the short, nerdy, weird girl living down the street, and I'm the one person who will always be there for the guy whose life seems to be falling apart. I make a difference with my friends on the internet, because I'm the sweet, crazy girl who believes friendship is just as strong from a kajillion miles away.
So, I bent over my notebook and started to write. As "Beautiful Bride" started doing serious damage to my eardrums, my pencil flew over the paper, true to its name. I wrote an entire paragraph before my dad threw a ball at me to get my attention--he had something he wanted me to do. My lips curved into a smile and I ran into the house. And now I'm sitting here finishing up this blog post; as soon as I do, I'm going to tackle that Killer's Creed again.
Cuz I remembered that I'm a little more than useless.
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