A Short Story About an Eager Writer
A very short story.
Once there was a very eager writer. She got up very early in the morning to write. It was so early that even the sun was still sleeping. It was so early that the dew wasn't ripe enough to fall. It was so early that the blackbird opened its eyes with annoyance and said with an angry chirrup, "go back to bed, I am not yet ready to wake the world with my song."
Once there was a very eager writer. During the morning – in between errands, chores and the kind of work that keeps food on the table – the writer would type up a page or two or three, reread paragraphs from days gone by, and jot down endless ideas.
Once there was a very eager writer. During the afternoon – on the commute from work, or at the supermarket, or while collecting and dropping off kids, colleagues and neighbours at their respective depots – the writer would envision that day's work and rewrite it all with an angry stain of virtual red ink all over the virtual scrap pieces of paper in her mind.
Once there was a very eager writer. During the evening – when everything was winding down, the eager writer was winding up: finally some quiet time to dig in, work, make changes, write, write, write. So, in between dinner, bathing, and the dim noise of the news programs in the background, the writer would plow forth with gritty determination and perseverance.
She did this day in, day out. She did this because she was so eager to write.
Once there was an eager writer who did all that.
I have heard about her, but it wasn't me.