There is no doubt that Carrie Bradshaw was a writer. Every breakup, relationship, and philosophical question about love on an episode of "Sex in the City" was written about in the New York Star by Ms. Bradshaw herself. Her laptop always sat on the same table by the window and after a long day of shopping, romancing, or quality time with the girls, Carrie always found herself coming home to her computer to write about the ideas festering inside of her. Maybe Carrie wrote to express her thoughts or maybe she wrote to entertain her audience, but in reality it's obvious that her income couldn't possibly provide her with the fashions she wore, so maybe Carrie wrote because she loved to write.
I write because it's a form of creativity, a way to express the thoughts in my head through stories. It has always come easily to me to pen the ideas in my head to paper, but sometimes not as easily as others. Today it came easily to me as it just so happened that an argument, not of my own, started in my head. As crazy as it sounds, I just heard them. I heard the voices of the unnamed protagonists of my newest story just simply come to me. After they settled their argument, I rushed to my computer, opened Word, and began to write. Everything seemed to flow and the dispute in my head turned out to be a seed that would soon develop my newest project.
Carrie once said, "I write about sex, not love. What do I know about love?" I can't say that I do the the precedent of the two, but I can agree that I may not know anything about love, but I definitely try to write about it. My newest creation is going to be about a girl who recently lost her father because I always find myself writing love stories with tragedy. This girl has always been sort of drawn to this quiet, aloof boy and eventually the two fall in love. Knowing my writing style, it's obvious that my male lead will have sorrow in his life as well. My mysterious male character's mother left him when he was five and has never said anything to him since, which will later lead to conflict, but I don't want to give too much away.
The following is the excerpt of my newest work that sort of inspired me today:“I feel like I can relate to you more than anyone else I have ever met, almost like we are one in the same. I just think that I can relate to you on so many levels.” He was staring at me like he was trying to uncover the depth of my words and the meaning of whatever we were in that moment. “We have such similar experiences and thoughts. Because of you, I feel whole again. We have both experienced loss-“
“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” he interrupted me.
“What?” I didn’t understand.
“I said that you’re wrong.” His voice was stern.
“What did I say?” I could feel myself start to tremble; the words were no longer rolling off my tongue. I now felt a sense of unease and it was becoming a struggle to simply get the thoughts in my head out to reach the surface.
“We did not have the same experience. Your dad loved you; he didn’t want to leave you, whereas my mother left me out of her own freewill. Do you know what that feels like?”
“Exactly. You grew up with two loving parents that vowed to look after you and care for you, whereas my mom chose to leave me one night without letting my father or I know. It took me until I was seven to realize that she wasn’t coming back and by then, I started to think I was the reason she left, so don’t you dare say we have felt the same sort of loss.”
“_______, I’m so sorry. I, I,” I began to stutter. “I didn’t mean to provoke you in any way, please forgive me. Don’t you kind of understand what I was trying to say?” I leaned in closer to him and placed my hands on his chest as I tried to show my vulnerability and yearn for his forgiveness.
“God damn it, _______!” He grabbed my wrist, pulling it off of him, but pulling me closer. “My mother read Goodnight Moon to me and then she left me. My own mother left me and God only knows where she is now. She didn’t give a fuck about her own son to write a letter, I haven’t spoken to that bitch since I told her, ‘Goodnight,’ before my innocent, juvenile eyes went to rest.”
He was out of breath and began to pant, but his staggered breaths soon turned to tears and the once rigid, aloof boy began to cry. ______ collapsed into my arms and his tears began to soak my shirt.
Through his tears he managed to gain enough courage to sit up and look into my eyes. “Forgive me, ________. I shouldn’t have-“
“No, I understand. I’m sorry, I didn’t need to-“
He put his finger to my lips to stop me from saying anything else that could possibly make the moment worse.
“I couldn’t possibly be any good for you, but you, _________, you are the best thing that could ever happen to me. You make me feel whole again.”
I think I'm going to title my project, "Him," due to my protagonist's infatuation with the mysterious boy.