Young Writers Society

This might be a little premature, considering I submitted my last story yesterday, but the deadline is coming up, so here's another story I'm submitting to the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Please review, and I hope you enjoy!

THE EXISTENTIAL CRISIS OF A PROFESSIONAL YOUTUBE COMMENTOR

It is an established fact in the world that there are some things you cannot avoid.

Writer’s block is one of those things.

I’m an aspiring writer, which means I wait tables at McDonalds and write on the side. It’s not so bad, really. The rough part is the face people give me when I tell them I’m a writer. It goes a little bit like this:

"So, what’s your job?"

"I’m a writer!"

This exclamation point signifies my naive hope that this time will be different.

"No, no--what’s your real job?"

"Writing is a real job!"

Now, this exclamation point differs from the earlier one in meaning. This one’s expressing my irritation, but also my avoidance of the truth. The truth is that writing, while being a real job, isn’t the best money-earner when you’re starting out. And I, a fresh-out-of-college loser with a degree in Creative Writing, am only just realizing that I really need a day job.

"Uh, yeah, whatever. Anyway, did you hear about that new movie?"

The ‘uh, yeah, whatever’ part of that statement signifies that my opponent will remain contemptuous of writers for his or her entire life but doesn’t really want to push the issue with me in particular. I’d say that was because the eponymous person knows I’d route them in an argument, but the reality is that he or she is so certain of his or her correctness, and doesn’t want to waste time arguing with a loser like me.

Last Monday, after dealing with that daily, unpleasant life experience with my coworker (a scrawny sixteen-year-old high school dropout who really shouldn’t be judging me), I returned to trying to defeat writer’s block.

I’d been dealing with it for the last few weeks, and my mind was sick and tired of that dreadful feeling. There are only so many times a writer can deal with loss of creativity before spontaneously combusting, and I was near that point.

My mind just couldn’t come up with anything! You see, I was planning to enter a short story competition, one with fabulous prizes and amazing guest speakers. I had planned to get a huge cash prize and use it to finally pay off my student loans. The problem was that as soon as I looked up the contest, and examined previous submissions, I was struck with that horrid feeling of being out of my league. Suddenly my brain choked up, and my personal critic started rejecting anything my tired brain came up with that wasn’t Shakespeare.

Now, I’m not Shakespeare by far. My stories might look like they have the quality of Shakespeare, but actually they need a little polishing. Anyway, I couldn’t come up with anything.

I spent my nightly writing time staring at a blank screen, before giving up and watching cat videos on You Tube. Now, don’t get me wrong. I practiced my writing. I worked on my persuasive essay skills by posting tons of pointlessly political comments on random videos. All I ended up with were a ton of dislikes, and no story ideas.

So here I was, in a McDonalds, staring at the wall and trying to ignore my coworker’s constant chatter about the latest movies. This coworker, Mo (or something like that), paused his talking to look at me.

"Uh, why do you have a German Shepherd on your lap, and why is it wearing a pink tiara?"

I blinked, and then looked down to see the aforementioned canine on my lap. It licked its face. I tried to remember what it was doing here. The dog was certainly very familiar, being a large and rather ferocious looking beast. I scratched my head, and then my eyes widened as I realized the truth.

Somehow, my boss had forgotten her pet here, the formidable guard dog sitting on my lap. She had just left for her house. Still, I had to check to make sure. There it was. The proof. The growling dog’s collar said in bold letters, ‘SWEETIE PIE’. My boss had mentioned before that Sweetie Pie was her dog’s name. I shook my head ruefully. My boss didn’t have a phone, which meant I’d have to drop off the dog at her house.

Frankly, I was a little bit scared of doing so.

You see, my boss may have run the McDonalds I worked at, but that wasn’t her full-time job. She worked an extra job as a ‘Licensed Neighborhood Cat Lady.’ As to why she had a dog, well, she had gone to a shelter to pick up a cat the owners had told her about earlier. Unfortunately, they had thought she was asking about a dog instead. She had almost returned Sweetie Pie, but the German Shepherd (then a puppy), had been so adorable that my boss, in an Anne of Green Gables moment, had adopted it.

Anyway, my boss, being a Cat Lady, was mildly insane. I really didn’t want to have to confront her at her house. Still, Mo was giggling frantically, having already figured it out. It appeared that it was too late for me to get out of the duty. Mo wiped his eyes several times, then said quickly,

"Sorry, man. Have fun visiting the boss!"

I ran out the door, pulling unsuccessfully at Sweetie Pie’s leash. The streets were crowded, and I was tired. The week hadn’t been going well for me, not just in work. I’d had a friend read one of my stories, and he had told me, in plain terms, that I was a grossly incompetent writer. The story itself was one of my trashiest, but he was still right. I couldn’t even come up with a good idea! What was worse, I was starting to realize that I didn’t even enjoy writing that much. Why I got a degree in it, I didn’t know.

Around a quarter of a mile from my boss’ house, Sweetie Pie sat down and would not budge. I ran in place for about ten minutes, before giving up. Sweetie Pie licked himself once or twice, and I yawned. My eyes suddenly stretched forward.

A fortune teller’s booth! It was just a small shop with a grimy neon sign, and I knew zodiacs and what not were fake, but I was in the perfect state of mind to be drawn into such things. What’s more, Sweetie Pie’s leash was long enough that I could sit inside the shop and he could sit outside, and we could both be happy.

I paid the check and sat down at a rickety table in front of a long-legged woman smoking a cigarette. She puffed on it once or twice, and I, taking that as encouragement, launched into my life story about how I was a down-on-his-luck genius who couldn’t get his magnum opus published, despite its potential for saving the world. She listened, looking more and more bored, and finally stepped in.

"Look, mister, I’m only here to give you a very vague and obviously fake prediction of your future. I’m not a psychologist."

"Yeah, but. . ."

She jerked the cigarette out again.

"Here’s what I can tell. You’re arrogant and stupid. You need to improve your writing, but instead you’re acting like you’re an artistic genius. You don’t even want to write that much. Maybe find another career path?"

I sighed.

"What kind of career is there for an arrogant, selfish idiot like me, according to your words?"

She puffed out some more smoke.

"Well, you’d make a pretty good politician."

I left the shop, only to discover that Sweetie Pie was gone. The leash was empty, and he was nowhere to be found. The tiara was the only thing left, lying on the ground in a pink crumpled mess. I sighed. I really didn’t want to put in the effort to go look for Sweetie Pie. I also hated my job at McDonalds. This was a perfect chance to get fired!

At that moment, I regret to say that I forgot I was depending on McDonalds for my household income.

I raced over to my boss’ house, jubilantly prepared to tell her that I had lost Sweetie Pie. Unfortunately, right then and there, I ran into Mo. For some reason he was standing in the middle of the crosswalk, frowning gloomily.

"What is it?"

He pounded his hand into his fist.

"So, while you’re gone, I happily serve a couple of people. Then, I look up. There’s Sweetie Pie, sitting in the middle of the restaurant. He scared away all of the customers! Let me guess--you took the dog out a couple feet, then let him back in. After that, why not just blow off work?"

"Uh. . ."

"Now here’s the dog. Drop her off at the boss’ house before I put you in the chicken nugget mixer!"

My face red, I headed over to the boss’ house, and left Sweetie Pie to sit on the front step, being too scared of the boss to actually enter her home.

 After that, I walked back to the McDonalds, pondering over the day. It had been an odd experience, to say the least. All I could think was that suddenly I had something to write about, as well as a new idea for a career path. I felt incredibly happy.

My joy diffused, however, when I entered the restaurant.

Mo was glowering at me with a vengeance, and Sweetie Pie was sitting in the middle of the kitchen.