Young Writers Society

The scent of freshly brewed coffee. The dance of rain that stained the air with a heavy linger of petrichor. The quiet coo of pigeons amidst the hustle and bustle of traffic in rush hour. The shimmer of sunset bathing the serenity that graced the coffee shop interior, right where I so happened to sit. 

It was usually relatively easy to just describe my surroundings in my head, watching with vivid alertness about every little thing that caught my eye, plucking adjectives from thin air and weaving them into sentences.

However, putting it on paper as a whole proved to be a separate, daunting task. Even finding the exact words to describe this sort of tranquility was a clear challenge, especially for a new writer like me. Even more so when nothing interesting happened. 

And this was a quiet city. Nothing interesting ever happened. 

"Winifred? Order 247 for Winifred? "

I bolted from my seat at the mention of my name, offering one too many 'thank you's and 'have a good day's to the cashier, who forced a weary smile, clearly just wanting to go back home. 

At that point of the day, don't we all? 

I sat at my notepad, tapping my pen rhythmically onto the wooden table, thinking of anything, anything at all that could help me with this mission. 

My phone jolted in my pocket, and I fumbled with fishing it out of my pants, imagining the judgemental eyes of everyone around me. 

But, of course, I would be oh so flattered if I ever received so much attention. 

"Winnie, my dear. How have you been? You haven't had the time to call or text your dear family? " An overly-chirpy voice cut my thoughts off. I mentally prepared myself for the future chastising. 

"Hi, mom. I'm sorry, it's just- the book. I haven't really got many ideas for this one. " I said, suddenly conscious of the fact that I was in a public space, and tilted my laptop screen down just a little. 

"Your book? Winnie, you've already published three books, how many more do you need? " I could hear the jingle of keys in the background as the door creaked open. 

"Is that Winifred on the phone? Hey, are you listening? You should have learnt from the first three little stories you wrote that your 'writer career' isn't going to happen. Grow up! Look at me, I have an actual job-" That familiar, annoying pain-in-the-ass has finally showed up. 

There they were, the constant, gnawing words that had been plaguing me ever since I wrote my first story, even publishing it myself since I barely had the funds to keep up with rent, let alone find a willing publisher. 

"Charles! You know how much Winnie has been wanting to write a successful book. " I could hear the switch in my mom's voice as she directed her attention from my brother back to me. "Winnie, darling, you know you can always come back anytime, right? Actually, my friend has a son who's around your age, he's respectful and an aspiring doctor.."

The rest of my mom's words seemed to trail off into somewhere other than my ears. My relatives said that I'm ungrateful, but staying in a house that constantly wished you'll want to settle down and get married to a rich man was quite suffocating in itself. 

If I were to talk about the aspect of getting married in this household, my parents would have thrown a party.

"Thanks for the offer, mom. But, I'm staying here. " It took a lot of convincing and pleading to convince my mom that I want to become a writer full-time, and to get her to agree to me moving out into a small city with nearly no reception. However, having zero phone calls from my cousins felt like pure bliss. 

I could hear an audible sigh from the other end of the phone.

"Alright. Just- you're welcome back anytime, okay? We love you, bye-! "

The call was abruptly cut off, and I was left alone with my thoughts again. 

I sank into the soft, leathery armchair, wondering what went wrong. 

Actually, I should be focusing on the bright side, especially at times like this. I had about a hundred people read my first book, then ten people read my second (to which someone replied on an online review website that they bought it on accident), and then only one reader stayed until the last few pages for my last story, 'The Cries of a Songbird". 

They even commented and told me to keep up the good work. 

That one reader was enough. Just the thought that someone out there liked my book is enough for me. Besides, it had only been a couple of days, I'm sure it'll get more traction over time. 

Right? 

Perhaps not. Furthermore, a reader wasn't going to help me pay my rent and buy me food. 

I slumped further into the chair, waiting oh so patiently for a spark of creativity to present itself to me, even until condensation formed a puddle around my half-empty drink. 

I had nothing. 

I sighed in frustration. It was already hard enough to have everyone in your life oppose your dream, in secret or not. I was nearly 100% sure that my parents would have chosen the life they wanted me to live if they could, and it didn't help that my books aren't popular where I'm staying. Actually, would marrying a rich man help in this case..? 

That would have been ideal for my sister, but if most people I love don't support my love for writing, who's to say a complete stranger would? 

I rubbed my temples, feeling drained of every single imaginative thought that ever crossed my mind. 

Maybe, it was time to finally get a 'real job'?

"Excuse me, are you Winifred, by any chance? "

I slowly glanced up from my empty notepad, making eye contact with the lobelia blue eyes that stared back at me, a certain questionable softness in his gaze that I couldn't quite put my finger on.