Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Kids
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Life Experience
- Published: 02/28/2017
A Life Worth Writing
Born 2004, F, from Portland, Oregon, United StatesThe library is filled with books and books and more books. Yellow, blue, magenta, indigo. Fat, skinny, tall, short. And among every book is a story. Amidst every story is a lesson. A lesson you can learn to help your own life. I’m a writer. That’s what I do. But as of this month, I can’t seem to do it.
Writer’s block. That’s what people call it. It’s like a wall in your brain that keeps the imagination from flowing into words and onto paper. It’s like walking in a forest filled with thick fog without a map. It’s like me not being able to write a single sentence in a whole month. For most authors, it’s the worst nightmare. So how do we deal with it? We make a visit to the library.
Oakland Library is like any other library. Blank walls, tall bookshelves, and a row of Mac computers. There’s a section for teens, a section for kids, and a section for adults. As I walk over to the adult fiction area, I look around for a good read. Reading is knowledge. It is a charger that charges our brain with information. When I can’t write, I read what others’ have written. It fills my mind with magical characters and twisting plot lines. Back when I was still in college, they told us that you can learn how to write a story by reading other stories. Unfortunately, that hasn’t helped my writer’s block problem at all. It just makes me even more depressed when I see all the good novels other authors have written. Why can’t I be like them? Is my life too boring? Am I just not fit to be a writer?
I remember back when I was seven, I told my father I wanted to write stories when I was older. You know what he said? He told me to grow up. He said that wasn’t a realistic job. Maybe he was right.
I’ve been coming to Oakland Library for quite a while now. I’ve noticed some daily patrons. The regal looking grandma who wears pearl necklaces as large as bowling balls. The teenager who sits by the computer studying intensely. And of course, the homeless man who can’t stop laughing. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have so many things to laugh about. Is life really that amusing? I think not.
I grab a book and sit down on a comfy chair to read. Romeo and Juliet. Wonderful. Way to remind me of the nonexistent love life I have. As I flip through the old, worn pages, I begin thinking. Isn’t it just the luck of fate that the two people who love each other so much have rivalry families? Isn’t that just unfair? Then again, to love a person so much you’d die if he died is not a common thing. It’s as though Romeo and Juliet’s life is entwined with each others’. I wonder what it’d feel like to love someone that much. No matter. That is not the life I should be thinking about currently. I need to be writing more and more to try to overcome my writer’s block.
After a few hours, I return home. I grab some week old oatmeal out of the fridge and stuff it into the microwave for warming. I pop open a bottle of Coke and chug it down within a few gulps. I can feel the sizzling of the gas through my throat. By 8:00 p.m. I’m in my bed trying so very hard to fall asleep. I still don’t know what to do about my problem. I guess I’ll visit the library again tomorrow.
Today’s visit to the library is the same as usual. I walk around, looking for a book, and finally sit on the comfy chair. I also get angry glares from the librarian for folding the pages for bookmarking. The only thing different about today is that Mr. Laughing-Homeless-Guy sits next to me on the couch. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against hobos. But that guy is just super weird. If he isn’t a homeless man he might have fit well for a role of being an old, creepy, stalker in a movie. His hair is graying and stringy, oily strands that probably haven't been washed since Pearl Harbor was bombed. The whites of his eyes are gray and his pupils are pitch black like a city during a power outage. Not to mention the clothes he wears. Everyday. The same exact thing. Light jeans that are clearly not suitable for wearing. A white T-shirt that really isn’t white anymore. It can’t even be considered a T-shirt because of how ripped it is. It’s more like a rag from the dumpster. Everything about this guy is extra creepy. Now add in his inability to stop laughing and you’ve got yourself the next mad scientist of the century.
I observe him carefully, wondering why he laughs so darn much. I didn’t like it. I’d never admit it to anyone else, but I was jealous. I was just jealous that he had things to laugh about and I didn’t. Someone like me who had money, a house, a career. Someone like him who had nothing but his own life. And yet, he had more happiness. And happiness is worth so much more than all my college degrees stacked up in a tower. Even a writer like me who has writer’s block knows that.
Anyways, you know what he laughs all day about? Absolutely nothing. His eyes are closed most of the time actually. He laughs in his sleep. Quirky, right? He seems to be reminiscing about his past, which apparently was extremely amusing. I’ve always been complimented on my ability to look through people and know their past just by seeing their appearance. This guy though. He’s special. Most homeless men are miserable, sad, and probably druggies. But Mr. Hobo here, he’s one of a kind. He laughs. He smiles. He’s even calm enough to fall asleep. I’m starting to admire his ability to ignore the misfortunes of the world; his capability to be delusional and oblivious to the terrible problems of society. I never thought I’d look up to a homeless man. Nevertheless, life is full of surprises.
Over the next few days, I visit Oakland library multiple times. Nothing much changes and the old hobo and I often share the comfy couch in the adult section of the library. We don’t talk. I don’t know his name. We don’t even acknowledge each other’s existence. But that’s okay. To see Mr. Homeless guy here day after day gives me comfort. Some reason.
Today I make my sixth visit to the library in one week. Once again, I grab a book, Lovely Bones, a New York Times bestseller I believe, and sit on the couch ready to endure a whole other day of complete incapability of writing. Life is so cruel sometimes. Actually all the time. Day after day. Boring and dull. I hold nothing but books and books and more books. I do nothing but read and read and read some more. Problems invade my mind like the little soldiers ready to claim some land. My internal army is losing. What can I say? Life isn’t being very nice these days.
Soon, I begin reading. Page after page. Millions of words swirl in my mind. Characters’ emotions take over my own. I’m feeling pain, happiness, depression, loneliness, any feeling you can possibly think of. Suddenly, I have a sneaking feeling that someone’s looking at me. Oh, and now someone’s talking. To me.
“Some say time will heal all wounds. I say time is like an arrow. It penetrates your body and then never leaves until you pull it out. Every second it spends in your body, your chance of living dwindles. Until you’re in so much pain, you have to pull it out. And then you realise it’s too late.” I swerve my head, looking at whoever it was that has spoken to me. It’s the hobo. The creep-stalker-laughing-homeless man. He’s looking at me, waiting for a response.
“Um… o-okay?” I stutter, not sure what to say after his very inspirational “quote”.
“So, what’s your name, little Miss. Read-all-day?” He asks me in a friendly tone.
“Lorrain. Lorraine Macklin. What’s yours?”
Hobo ignores my question saying, “What a lovely name you have. Why, your name is so lovely. How come you aren’t?”
“I am my name. What are you talking about?” I question back.
“No, no. Your name is not you. It is what people know you by. Never is it ever what defines you.”
“You see, I’m a writer experiencing severe writer’s block. I really don’t need any more confusing lines thrown at me. My own life is confusing enough, thank you very much.” I explain, starting to get annoyed. I like the homeless man much better when he is silent.
“Oh I see. My sister was a writer once.”
Oh boy. He just keeps talkin’, doesn’t he?
“Was?” I try my best to sound sincere.
“She died. Just couldn’t take it anymore. Life wasn’t very nice to her. I live for her sake. Enjoy every moment. Although, being a homeless man, there’s not that much to enjoy.”
Life wasn’t nice? That’s what I think every day!
“You know what I think about writer’s block?” He asks once again.
“I don’t know. What?” I reply back, not really caring.
“Before you can write a good story, you’ve got to live a good story. Only when you live a story worth writing, can you write a story worth reading.”
And then our short conversation ends. He goes back to laughing in his sleep and I go back to reading. Suddenly I don’t have an urge to read anymore. I grab my bags and walk out the library doors.
When I enter my small Subaru, I throw the bags into the backseat, and I sit. I sit for a while, not wanting to shatter the very delicate moment. 'Before you can write a good story, you’ve got to live a good story.' He was right. Reading more books wasn’t helping my writer’s block. It never has and it never will. Your life is there for living. So live it. I had been ignorant. I was looking all around for the best resource for inspiration. And all along, good inspiration was right there under my nose. My life. My own life was the best inspiration for any story I’d ever write in the future. The ups and downs for plot twist. The people in my life for characters. My own personality and emotions for traits and inner thinking. I wasn’t living my life before and so there was nothing to inspire me. But now I knew. I insert the key for ignition, place my foot on the gas pedal… and I’m off. I’m driving away. I don’t know where I’m driving yet. But I know it’s away from here. Far, far away. Somewhere new, somewhere unknown. Because the unknown is what will make my life something worth writing and my story something worth reading. Thanks for showing me what I could not see for myself. I whisper a silent thank you to the homeless man and then all that had happened in the past month becomes but a memory in the vast ocean of my mind.
A Life Worth Writing(Catherine Yating Zhu)
The library is filled with books and books and more books. Yellow, blue, magenta, indigo. Fat, skinny, tall, short. And among every book is a story. Amidst every story is a lesson. A lesson you can learn to help your own life. I’m a writer. That’s what I do. But as of this month, I can’t seem to do it.
Writer’s block. That’s what people call it. It’s like a wall in your brain that keeps the imagination from flowing into words and onto paper. It’s like walking in a forest filled with thick fog without a map. It’s like me not being able to write a single sentence in a whole month. For most authors, it’s the worst nightmare. So how do we deal with it? We make a visit to the library.
Oakland Library is like any other library. Blank walls, tall bookshelves, and a row of Mac computers. There’s a section for teens, a section for kids, and a section for adults. As I walk over to the adult fiction area, I look around for a good read. Reading is knowledge. It is a charger that charges our brain with information. When I can’t write, I read what others’ have written. It fills my mind with magical characters and twisting plot lines. Back when I was still in college, they told us that you can learn how to write a story by reading other stories. Unfortunately, that hasn’t helped my writer’s block problem at all. It just makes me even more depressed when I see all the good novels other authors have written. Why can’t I be like them? Is my life too boring? Am I just not fit to be a writer?
I remember back when I was seven, I told my father I wanted to write stories when I was older. You know what he said? He told me to grow up. He said that wasn’t a realistic job. Maybe he was right.
I’ve been coming to Oakland Library for quite a while now. I’ve noticed some daily patrons. The regal looking grandma who wears pearl necklaces as large as bowling balls. The teenager who sits by the computer studying intensely. And of course, the homeless man who can’t stop laughing. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have so many things to laugh about. Is life really that amusing? I think not.
I grab a book and sit down on a comfy chair to read. Romeo and Juliet. Wonderful. Way to remind me of the nonexistent love life I have. As I flip through the old, worn pages, I begin thinking. Isn’t it just the luck of fate that the two people who love each other so much have rivalry families? Isn’t that just unfair? Then again, to love a person so much you’d die if he died is not a common thing. It’s as though Romeo and Juliet’s life is entwined with each others’. I wonder what it’d feel like to love someone that much. No matter. That is not the life I should be thinking about currently. I need to be writing more and more to try to overcome my writer’s block.
After a few hours, I return home. I grab some week old oatmeal out of the fridge and stuff it into the microwave for warming. I pop open a bottle of Coke and chug it down within a few gulps. I can feel the sizzling of the gas through my throat. By 8:00 p.m. I’m in my bed trying so very hard to fall asleep. I still don’t know what to do about my problem. I guess I’ll visit the library again tomorrow.
Today’s visit to the library is the same as usual. I walk around, looking for a book, and finally sit on the comfy chair. I also get angry glares from the librarian for folding the pages for bookmarking. The only thing different about today is that Mr. Laughing-Homeless-Guy sits next to me on the couch. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against hobos. But that guy is just super weird. If he isn’t a homeless man he might have fit well for a role of being an old, creepy, stalker in a movie. His hair is graying and stringy, oily strands that probably haven't been washed since Pearl Harbor was bombed. The whites of his eyes are gray and his pupils are pitch black like a city during a power outage. Not to mention the clothes he wears. Everyday. The same exact thing. Light jeans that are clearly not suitable for wearing. A white T-shirt that really isn’t white anymore. It can’t even be considered a T-shirt because of how ripped it is. It’s more like a rag from the dumpster. Everything about this guy is extra creepy. Now add in his inability to stop laughing and you’ve got yourself the next mad scientist of the century.
I observe him carefully, wondering why he laughs so darn much. I didn’t like it. I’d never admit it to anyone else, but I was jealous. I was just jealous that he had things to laugh about and I didn’t. Someone like me who had money, a house, a career. Someone like him who had nothing but his own life. And yet, he had more happiness. And happiness is worth so much more than all my college degrees stacked up in a tower. Even a writer like me who has writer’s block knows that.
Anyways, you know what he laughs all day about? Absolutely nothing. His eyes are closed most of the time actually. He laughs in his sleep. Quirky, right? He seems to be reminiscing about his past, which apparently was extremely amusing. I’ve always been complimented on my ability to look through people and know their past just by seeing their appearance. This guy though. He’s special. Most homeless men are miserable, sad, and probably druggies. But Mr. Hobo here, he’s one of a kind. He laughs. He smiles. He’s even calm enough to fall asleep. I’m starting to admire his ability to ignore the misfortunes of the world; his capability to be delusional and oblivious to the terrible problems of society. I never thought I’d look up to a homeless man. Nevertheless, life is full of surprises.
Over the next few days, I visit Oakland library multiple times. Nothing much changes and the old hobo and I often share the comfy couch in the adult section of the library. We don’t talk. I don’t know his name. We don’t even acknowledge each other’s existence. But that’s okay. To see Mr. Homeless guy here day after day gives me comfort. Some reason.
Today I make my sixth visit to the library in one week. Once again, I grab a book, Lovely Bones, a New York Times bestseller I believe, and sit on the couch ready to endure a whole other day of complete incapability of writing. Life is so cruel sometimes. Actually all the time. Day after day. Boring and dull. I hold nothing but books and books and more books. I do nothing but read and read and read some more. Problems invade my mind like the little soldiers ready to claim some land. My internal army is losing. What can I say? Life isn’t being very nice these days.
Soon, I begin reading. Page after page. Millions of words swirl in my mind. Characters’ emotions take over my own. I’m feeling pain, happiness, depression, loneliness, any feeling you can possibly think of. Suddenly, I have a sneaking feeling that someone’s looking at me. Oh, and now someone’s talking. To me.
“Some say time will heal all wounds. I say time is like an arrow. It penetrates your body and then never leaves until you pull it out. Every second it spends in your body, your chance of living dwindles. Until you’re in so much pain, you have to pull it out. And then you realise it’s too late.” I swerve my head, looking at whoever it was that has spoken to me. It’s the hobo. The creep-stalker-laughing-homeless man. He’s looking at me, waiting for a response.
“Um… o-okay?” I stutter, not sure what to say after his very inspirational “quote”.
“So, what’s your name, little Miss. Read-all-day?” He asks me in a friendly tone.
“Lorrain. Lorraine Macklin. What’s yours?”
Hobo ignores my question saying, “What a lovely name you have. Why, your name is so lovely. How come you aren’t?”
“I am my name. What are you talking about?” I question back.
“No, no. Your name is not you. It is what people know you by. Never is it ever what defines you.”
“You see, I’m a writer experiencing severe writer’s block. I really don’t need any more confusing lines thrown at me. My own life is confusing enough, thank you very much.” I explain, starting to get annoyed. I like the homeless man much better when he is silent.
“Oh I see. My sister was a writer once.”
Oh boy. He just keeps talkin’, doesn’t he?
“Was?” I try my best to sound sincere.
“She died. Just couldn’t take it anymore. Life wasn’t very nice to her. I live for her sake. Enjoy every moment. Although, being a homeless man, there’s not that much to enjoy.”
Life wasn’t nice? That’s what I think every day!
“You know what I think about writer’s block?” He asks once again.
“I don’t know. What?” I reply back, not really caring.
“Before you can write a good story, you’ve got to live a good story. Only when you live a story worth writing, can you write a story worth reading.”
And then our short conversation ends. He goes back to laughing in his sleep and I go back to reading. Suddenly I don’t have an urge to read anymore. I grab my bags and walk out the library doors.
When I enter my small Subaru, I throw the bags into the backseat, and I sit. I sit for a while, not wanting to shatter the very delicate moment. 'Before you can write a good story, you’ve got to live a good story.' He was right. Reading more books wasn’t helping my writer’s block. It never has and it never will. Your life is there for living. So live it. I had been ignorant. I was looking all around for the best resource for inspiration. And all along, good inspiration was right there under my nose. My life. My own life was the best inspiration for any story I’d ever write in the future. The ups and downs for plot twist. The people in my life for characters. My own personality and emotions for traits and inner thinking. I wasn’t living my life before and so there was nothing to inspire me. But now I knew. I insert the key for ignition, place my foot on the gas pedal… and I’m off. I’m driving away. I don’t know where I’m driving yet. But I know it’s away from here. Far, far away. Somewhere new, somewhere unknown. Because the unknown is what will make my life something worth writing and my story something worth reading. Thanks for showing me what I could not see for myself. I whisper a silent thank you to the homeless man and then all that had happened in the past month becomes but a memory in the vast ocean of my mind.
- Share this story on
- 7
COMMENTS (0)