The Writer

January 3, 2012
By , Las Pinas City, Philippines
Writers don’t only write.

Of course, they write, and that’s why they’re called ‘writers,’ but they do much more than that. Writers are able to capture both the heart and mind of the person and make them feel that life is incredible. They let their imagination soar and come up with most extravagant of things. They inspire the young minds of humans and permit them to imagine, for imagination is one of the most powerful weapons writers have.

Writers not only do that, but they also have the ability to put themselves in one’s situation, be it good
or bad. You will be surprised how an author understands your story perfectly, despite the unrealistic
twists and turns that make your story seem like an imaginary rollercoaster.

Of course, they didn’t know that.
--
“Jessica, get your head out of that notebook and listen.”

I reluctantly brought my head up and my eyes met Arisha’s brown ones. I’ve always felt intrigued by
those eyes. They always seem to possess so much emotion that I can’t help reading them once in a
while. Today, her eyes displayed a wave of anger and a pinch of curiosity.

‘What could she probably be curious of?’ I thought, temporarily forgetting about the eighty-papers
bound together in my hand.

“I know you really enjoy writing,” Arisha said, not letting go of her serious gaze on me. “But this has to stop. We’re here to have fun and you’re ruining it!”

Then, she nudged the girl beside her—Chrissy—as if to mentally ask for some kind of support.

Chrissy was the shy one among us. She's the complete opposite of Arisha, actually, since Arisha is spontaneous and Chrissy was shy.

Chrissy in turn nodded her head slowly.Then, she looked at me
with apologetic eyes.

“But I like writing!” I attempted to protest, earning a glare. “And I didn’t even want to be here.”

I really like Writing. It’s my life. Without it, I would probably just be another confused teenager
looking for a shelter for her restless soul. Like Arisha. I’m not saying she has no talent, of course not.
She’s an amazing singer, but she really doesn’t take it seriously.

But of course, I can never tell her that, since she gets made pretty easily.

“Seriously, you have got to get out more.” Arisha commented. “Writing will do nothing to your social life, after all.”

I can’t believe she just said that. Sure, she doesn’t know that I love writing more than everything,
but she knows that I really like it. Well, yeah, what she said was partly true, but still…

“Let’s go.”

I don’t like that look in her eyes.

--

Writers represent freedom, freedom to express one’s self. They seep into the soul of one who yearns
to free his self from the clutches of limits and make him do wonderful things that stand on the border
of reality and fantasy.

Of course, writers can’t represent freedom if they themselves can’t acquire it.

And that’s precisely the situation I’m currently in.

“Oh, look!” I heard Arisha say to Chrissy. “This suits you perfectly!”

I have a big hunch why she’s doing this, picking clothes for Chrissy to wear while I’m supposed to just
sit here, yearning for my notebook, which she stole and is now residing in her bag. I think Arisha is
trying to make me jealous, seeing them all close and buying clothes. I never liked shopping, so I don’t
really have a problem with just sitting here, but sitting here without a notebook? That’s a problem.

Of course, I tried asking her for it. She, being the persistent and stubborn girl she is, wouldn’t give it
back, although she was almost bribed when I told her I would give her my musical note necklace. I
actually bought it for a pretty cheap price so I’m not really losing anything if I give it to her. But no,
her mind just had to get in the way of what her heart wants, so now, I’m here, sitting on a chair
inside a women’s clothing store. I don’t even know why I agreed to come. Perhaps it was because I
have never gone out with friends before, since I always write, but I regret it now.

I’ve lost my notebook and a hundred ideas are flooding my head. I believe ideas are like trains. If you
miss them, you have to wait a really long time before you get to catch them again, so I try my best to
write down every idea that comes to this head of mine. I can’t do that right now, of course, since
someone stole my notebook.

Once or twice, I saw Arisha smirk a little. I don’t even know how I became friends with her. It’s been
such a long time that I forgot.

‘If I leave right now, will they be able to notice?’ I thought, calculating how many seconds it would
take to exit the store. ‘About five seconds…?’

--

‘This is the end. I’m sorry not being able to protect you.’

I closed the notebook in my hands and was greeted by an unfamiliar design.

“I miss my notebook,” I unconsciously muttered.

I had successfully snuck out of the store and I am now sitting in a café with a cappuccino and a brand
new notebook. I wonder if I’ll be able to get my old notebook back once Arisha finds out I’m gone. I
wonder if they’ll even notice me missing.

I shook my head to get rid of the childish thoughts circling in it and continued writing. I’m actually
writing a novel, and I haven’t let anyone read it yet, so I don’t really know if it’s good or bad. It has
always been my dream to write a novel since I was a little child, watching my mother read those thick
books of hers. When I was eight, I finally decided to write my first story. It was a childish story about
a princess who wanted to become a superhero and when a monster named Kibby conquered her
country, all the men that challenged it fainted—because I didn’t like the word ‘died’—so she decided
to beat it herself and she succeeded. Actually, it was a comic book and today, I find Kibby cute. It
was scribbled in my pink diary along with some other random drawings.

I let Arisha write on that diary too, I remember, and she would always write about how she was
going to meet Hannah Montana and they would sing and dance together on the stage. It was actually
pretty normal for an eight-year-old girl to dream like that, so her parents didn’t mind her belting out
one of her idol’s song every chance she gets. My parents, however, were worried that I wasn’t
behaving like my older sister when she was my age. It always sucks to have an older sister, because
everyone expects you to follow her steps and be all talented and smart and everything.

I’m sorry. I think I’ve gone too far. I mean, Angela’s awesome. She’s nice and she’s really talented
and everyone looks up to her, but being her sister doesn’t mean that I would be like her, right? Of
course not. We’re two different individuals. I am myself and she is herself. I could never be her and
she could never be me.

And that is a fact.

--

I walked home alone today and realized that she still had my notebook. I’ve been thinking a lot during
my three hours in the café and I should have really been considerate of Arisha’s feelings. Sure, she
can be selfish sometimes, but she’s only human. Humans can’t help but be selfish once in a while.

Of course, she would probably be angry at me, because she tried really hard to persuade me to come
with her to the mall and I rained on her parade by being selfish, and so I was punished by letting my
imagination go wild in my head while I had nothing to record it on. For a writer, that was a very cruel
punishment, but I’m sure she didn’t know, since I’m the only writer she has ever met.

I have not been able to acquire one of the most important characteristics a writer should have. I
have not tried to put myself in her shoes before letting my emotions take over. Actually, that isn’t
even a writer characteristic. It’s one of the most important characteristics a human should have.

And I haven’t accomplished it.

--

“I read your work,”

I stared at her brown eyes and once again, it was filled with emotions. She felt guilty, but at the
same time, satisfied. All I could do was read her eyes, but I could never understand what she’s
thinking. Perhaps that was the main reason why I have been so inconsiderate and selfish.

“I’m giving this back to you,” She said, handing over my little notebook. For a moment, her eyes
seemed to contain melancholy. “On one condition.”

Of course she wanted a condition. That was the way Arisha’s mind worked. Give and Receive. I
anticipated this, but despite my efforts of figuring out what she could possibly want in return, I could
only think of material things. Arisha, being the kind of girl she is, would probably ask for material
things, but having known her for a long time, I believe that she is fully capable of asking for
something better than a bag or boots.

“What is it?” My throat hurt as I spoke. Believe it or not, when Arisha wouldn’t talk to me, I had cried.
I’ve never been the kind of girl to cry over something petty like that, but Arisha was special.

She was my best friend. I couldn’t help crying. You wouldn’t too, if your best friend ignores you. It’s
like you have this special bond that is only visible to the two of you. No one else sees it, yet it’s right
there. It’s the bond that keeps us together. It’s the bond of friendship.

Being an avid reader, I have read a million unexpected situations. I have seen them all from a lunatic
princess rescuing a dragon, to a lawyer being the criminal. But no book would have prepared me for
what the girl in front of me said next.



“Keep writing.”





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