Fill the Lines

"You're useless."

That's what the voice says. In my head, you know, that small little thing in the back of your brain somewhere.

"Useless."

As I stare at the blank paper. All those little blue lines - the red one too, at the side - they're all staring at me. And I can't figure out how to fill them.

"You call yourself a writer. But it's funny how you just stare at paper all day."

The voice is right, of course. It never tells a lie. I haven't written a piece - a real piece - in... I can't remember how long it's been.

The lines are still staring, wondering what I'm doing. I'm a writer, after all. I'm supposed to fill them.

But I can't.

"So are you really worthy of being a writer, then?"

I can't answer the question - I'm afraid to answer it. A writer - that's been my identity, my prized way of life, seemingly forever. How many people have I proudly told, "I'm a writer - that's what I do"?

This is ridiculous. "Free write" -  that's all the teacher said. I shouldn't be sitting here like a vegetable. I shouldn't be arguing with myself over an assignment.

I shouldn't be about to cry.

But I am.

"Look at everyone around you. You're so proud of being a writer, the one who's good at this, and they're all doing just what you can't. They're doing better than you are."

They are. There they are, all over the classroom, all writing away. Some are already finished. My heart sinks with every word scrawled on their papers, as mine watches me sadly, disappointedly. They're oblivious to me, writing away about their friends, the party last night, what they had for lunch...

I wonder why I've never written that kind of stuff. Normal stuff - regular stuff about regular people. If I did, I wouldn't have this problem, but-

But I don't.

I don't know how long it's been since I've written a piece. But I do remember the piece - a fanfiction, my first one, dropping a ghost into a realistic book and toying with how my favorite characters react. That's not regular.

Before that. I wrote a book. A girl, based off of myself to make it easier, who found a dragon under her bed. Before that - a recollection of the years from the point of view of my prized stuffed bunny.

Those weren't regular.

"Sure, you've written nice things. But how often does that happen, that you get ideas like that? You can't pull them out of your pocket, can you?"

Suddenly I remember an old saying. "Quality, not quantity." I don't remember where I first heard it, but I remember the meaning. And it hits me.

Maybe it doesn't matter when I write. Maybe what makes the difference between a writer and a normal person is what they write, what their standard is.

"You're still failing this task, though, writer."

Fine.

Here's what I have to say to you, voice. You may never lie, but you're wrong about me. I am not useless. I am not a failure. I am a writer.

The lines are watching. It's not my job to fill all of them - it's my job to bring each one I can to its highest potential. You want me to fill the page?

I don't write about normal things - I write about battles, revolutions. And I happen to know of one that just ended.

I lift my pen triumphantly. I am a writer, and I am writing a piece - a work of art in progress.

I begin.

"You're useless."

That's what the voice says....