Worth It

Once upon a time, there was a writer named Sarah. One day, Sarah was trying to write a short story for the summer writing class she was taking, but she had such terrible writer's block that she couldn't think of a single story to write. In desperation, she started writing about her writer's block, and behold, a story was born after all.
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Worth It

            It’s 9:57 P.M. on July fifteenth. I’m sitting at my desk, staring at a blank page in my notebook with a pencil in my hand and no ideas left in my head. Normally, I’d be thinking about going to bed right about now. Unfortunately, Camp NaNoWriMo is halfway over, I’m three days behind on my word count, and I’ve barely written three pages today.

            I have to admit that writer’s block has me feeling as trapped as my characters. That’s saying something, since one of those characters is in a heavily guarded dungeon, has lost his last ally, and is in so much pain that he’s wondering why he isn’t dead right now. I’d like to blame his situation on my characters, but no, this time it’s completely my fault. I can’t deny that. I also can’t deny that his situation is about half the reason for my writer’s block.

            I sigh and drop my pencil. I flip back through the last ten pages in my notebook, looking for inspiration and instead finding several spelling and grammar mistakes and nearly falling down a plot hole. I linger for a moment over the plot hole, hoping that fixing it will make my character’s situation slightly less impossible. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes it worse. So, I leave the hole as it is and flip back to my blank page.

            I start to pick up my pencil, but stop. The page glares up at me, and I glance at the clock. 10:12. I’ve just spent fifteen minutes getting nowhere. Then again, I’ve spent all day getting nowhere, so what’s another fifteen minutes?

            Returning my attention to the notebook, I pick up my pencil and start to jot down a sentence. I stop halfway through and grab my eraser. My character feeling sorry for himself won’t do the situation any good, though I suppose it might boost my word count by a few hundred words or so. More importantly, I’m dismayed enough as it is without my character having a pity party.

            Despite my best efforts with my eraser, I can’t get all the pencil marks off the page. The faint lines of the deleted words seem to taunt me. I can’t even come up with a single sentence I like. In the page margin, I calculate exactly how many words behind I am. I should be at twenty-five thousand, five hundred words. I have just over nineteen thousand, nine hundred, which means I’m behind by a solid five thousand. With a mostly stifled moan, I drop my pencil again. Maybe this isn’t worth it.

            I flip through the last ten pages again and find more mistakes, more places I should’ve worded something differently, more places a character should’ve said this and not that, and another plot hole. I consider the synopsis of my book. When I first came up with the idea for the plot, I’d been so excited. Now, however, I can’t help but consider how similar it is to other books I’ve read. I slump in my seat. Let’s face it. My story is lousy. I should just give up now. The idea seems rather attractive, in an “I-just-don’t-care-anymore” way. So what if I won’t complete this Camp NaNoWriMo? You can’t win everything. Maybe it’s time to admit defeat for once.

            I close my notebook, not bothering to put a bookmark in it like I usually do. I start to stand and walk over to my bed, but stop before I can climb in. I think again about my character. He wants to give up. He has a lot more reason to want to give up than I do. But I wouldn’t let him give up. I never let any of my characters give up, at least not for long. So what right do I have to give up on them? 

            Slowly, I turn around and walk back to my desk. Instead of sitting down in my chair and opening my notebook again, I kneel on the floor and pull open one of my drawers containing my finished notebooks. One by one, I lift them out: seven black composition notebooks and two spiral-bound notebook. I consider what it took to fill these notebooks. Hours of brainstorming. Hours of trying to find just the right words. Hours of trying to figure out how in the world to get my characters out of the messes I’ve put them in. Hours of not giving up, even when I’m stumped and my characters refuse to cooperate with anything I want them to do.

            I look up at the bookshelf across the room. Rows of novels greet my eyes: paperbacks and hardbacks, classics and contemporary novels, fantasies and nonfiction. All so different, but all with one thing in common: the authors didn’t give up. Come to think of it, neither did the characters in those novels. They kept struggling through, even when things got tough, and because of that, they succeeded. I glance at the notebook sitting on my desk. Even without writer’s block, it’ll be difficult to succeed, to achieve my goal of fifty thousand words by the end of the month. But it won’t be impossible. The only thing that could make it impossible to succeed is if I give up. 

            Is giving up really worth it?

            I smile and place the notebooks back in their drawer. I know the answer to this question: it isn’t. And so I won’t give up. I’ll keep working, keep trying to write, and keep trying to figure out how in the world I can get my character out of the predicament he’s in. At least now I think I know how to give him a little hope to keep trying. 

            I stand. Pull out my desk chair and sit down. And then I reopen my notebook, pick up my pencil, and start writing. 

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Note: the introduction is true. The story is not, though it is based on my life. I hope you enjoyed it!

Lost and Found

Hey'a, all! I'm sorry about the lack of recent posts; I've been working on Camp NaNoWriMo and it's keeping my pretty busy. On that subject, I'm afraid the book reviews I was hoping to do will have to be at least postponed until after Camp NaNoWriMo is over. In the meantime, I should have plenty of short stories to post.
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Lost and Found

            “Well, officer? Any word?”

            “I’m afraid not, Mr. Roberts. We’ve uncovered nothing new in well over a week now. In fact, that’s why I called.”

            Mr. Roberts’s grip tightened on the phone. “What do you mean, officer?”

            There was silence over the line for a moment. “Well, she disappeared three weeks ago, Mr. Roberts. There’s been no new information in over a week. All the information we do have points to her having run away, with no signs of foul play of any kind. It’s a cold case, Mr. Roberts, and we’re stretched thin at the moment. I’m afraid that, until further notice, we’re stopping official investigation on the case.”

            Mr. Roberts had seen the words coming, but they hit hard nonetheless. He slumped back in his kitchen chair, struggling to control himself. “You won’t search for Jenna any longer?”

            “Not unless we receive new information on her case, no. I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts. I’d like to be able to keep looking for her, just like I’d like to be able to keep looking for every other person who hasn’t been found yet. If we had any leads or enough manpower, we’d certainly continue the search, but as it is . . .” His voice trailed off.

            “Yes, I see.” He did see, or the logical part of his mind did, anyway. The police had done all they could, and he couldn’t expect them to keep looking when they had no leads. His heart, however, wanted to cry out, “But that’s my daughter out there! It’s the middle of winter, and she could be alone, lost, hurt!” Instead, he asked, “Anything else, officer?”

            “Nothing. We’ll be certain to let you know if anything changes.”

            “Thank you, officer. Have a nice day.” Mr. Roberts lowered the phone before he could hear the officer apologize again and wish him a nice day as well. He rose to his feet and replaced the phone in its base. Then he walked to the door, grabbing a coat from the closet as he passed, and headed out into the cold evening. The police might’ve given up on Jenna, but there was someone else who hadn’t, and Mr. Roberts felt it was time to go talk to Him again.

~~~~~

            She woke curled up on the pavement, cold and aching all over, just as she had . . . how many times? She didn’t know. She hadn’t bothered counting. At first she’d been certain she’d get home soon. Now it was just too much effort. She struggled to remember what she was doing out here on the streets. Where was her father? No, she’d left him. Where was Marcus, then?

            Oh. That’s right. Marcus had been a liar. He hadn’t cared for her like he said he did. He’d tricked her into coming with him so he could use her. But he’d asked too much of her, and she’d refused. She remembered that much clearly now. She’d said no, no, no too many times to him. Finally he’d lost his temper and beat her until she lost consciousness. How long ago had that been? A day? Three days? A week?

            She knew she needed help. She had to find someone to help her, even if it meant admitting that she was wrong. That she shouldn’t have left. Shouldn’t have trusted Marcus. She tried to struggle to her feet, but couldn’t seem to find the strength. She tried crawling, and this time she managed to move a few feet before collapsing again. She moaned and tried to get up once more, but she was just . . . too . . . tired.

~~~~~

            Mr. Roberts knelt in the silence of 3^rd Street Community Church, in between two rows of pews. He’d come here every Sunday for ten years, since he and his daughter moved across town and needed a new place to worship. In the past few weeks, he’d come here every few days, always for the same reason: to pray in the place where he felt closest to his Creator.

            He bowed his head, resting it against the smooth wood of the pew in front of him. “God, You know what I come before You to ask. I’ve asked it a hundred times already: please, help me find my daughter. Somehow, some way, guide me to her. I love her so much, God, and I’m so worried for her. She’s only sixteen, and she’s out there, somewhere, vulnerable and alone. When I think of what could happen-”

            He broke off, unable to finish the sentence. After a few minutes, he regained control enough to speak. “I know, God, that You have not abandoned her or me. No matter how much I love Jenna, You love her immeasurably more. Even now, no matter where she is or what’s happened to her, she is in Your hands, and for that I thank You. Protect her, God, and even if is not Your will that I see her again today or any time I’d call soon, guide her to someone who will help her. I lift her and her circumstances to You, knowing that You will not forget her or me. You’re the only hope I have left.”

            In the belfry high above, a bell rang out four o’clock.

~~~~~

            The brazen ringing of a church bell brought her back to the waking world. It seemed familiar somehow, though she couldn’t seem to figure out why. She blinked, listening for a moment, before realizing what the sound meant. If there’s a church bell, there’s a church nearby. She vaguely remembered going to church many times before she ran. It had seemed that someone there was always doing some project to help someone or another. Maybe someone there would help her.

            Once again, she tried to struggle to her feet, and this time, she succeeded. She stumbled along the sidewalk, keeping as close to the buildings as she could so she could use them for support. Several times she nearly fell, and she quickly lost track of how long she’d been walking. Nonetheless, she kept moving, determined to find the church.

            Finally she could go no further. She collapsed on a doorstep, too tired to try to figure out where she was. The last thing she saw before her eyes slid shut was a glimpse of a colored glass window.

~~~~~

            Mr. Roberts rose to his feet and walked down the sanctuary aisle towards the church door. He felt comforted now, after his time of prayer. Jenna was in God’s hands; He would take care of her.

            He pulled open the door and started to step out, but stopped. A girl, certainly not out of her teens, lay in a heap on the doorstep as if she’d collapsed there. Her dirty, ragged jeans and hoody made it clear that if she had a home or a place to stay, she hadn’t seen that place in quite some time.

            Mr. Roberts knelt beside the girl, pulling off his coat. “Poor girl,” he muttered. He grasped the girl’s shoulder and started to turn her so he could wrap his coat around her. As he did, the hood fell away from her face. He stared for a moment at her familiar features. “Jenna?” he whispered. Can it be?

            Her lips moved and she croaked out a word. “Help?” Her eyes fluttered open and fixed on him. They widened, just a little. “Dad?”

            Mr. Roberts broke into a grin. He lifted his daughter and grasped her in a tight hug. “Jenna! Thank God, I’ve been so worried! What happened- Never mind. We’ve got to get you someplace warm. You must be half-frozen.”

            Her eyes had already slid closed again. “’M sorry, Dad,” she mumbled. “Shouldn’t have left.”

            “Shh.” He tucked his coat around her and lifted her in his arms. “It’s all right. Thank God, I’ve found you again at last.”