A Natural Disaster

01 master

RIGHT FROM THE START, it was always give and take. It was me, putting so much effort into things. Me, trying my absolute best. But it was things never, ever working out.

It’s Monday morning. The infamous day that everyone wishes away until they reach the hump of the week, which they again wish away until they reach the weekend. It’s this terrible sort of cycle which tricks people into wishing away their entire lives.

It’s also the day of my internship interview.

I wake up earlier than usual and sit at my desk in front of a window overlooking the downtown Manhattan street as I try to get a start on my writing. I’m praying for something to come up. Anything.

You know you’re screwed when you’re a creative writing major, and no matter how long you sit down to write, the screen remains empty.

It’s not like a doctor can wake up one day and say their brain isn’t working how it should.

I wish I could punch my writer’s block. Seriously. I want it to die a slow, painful death at my hands.

I’ve tried everything. Listening to music. Watching movies. Reading other books. They only fuel my procrastination.

Now, with only one semester left until graduation, I’m faced with a big, big problem.

All writing internships want to see that you’ve done substantive work — and not just from your college portfolio. They want novel length manuscripts, or at the very least, short stories. And they have to be reasonably recent.

I have nothing.

Zilch, save for my college creative writing assignments. And some horrible pieces I wrote in high school which need to be burnt to ash.

“Rhia!” my mother’s voice comes from downstairs.

When you’re brown, it’s common to stay with your parents until you get married. Some boys still stay with their parents after marriage, but that’s a topic for another day.

I love my parents. I really do.

But I’m losing my mind.

Because I’m not getting married any time soon, and even with the tips I get from waitressing for my dad’s restaurant, I can’t afford my own apartment. And I’d never survive in a college dorm. I hate sharing.

So that means I’m stuck in this house until I get my shit together.

My mom appears at my room door. Dressed in her usual loose-fitting clothes, she’s short — I thankfully inherited my dad’s height — and her shoulder-length black hair sits at her shoulders.

With a slight accent, she says, “Every day you sit in front of the computer. And every day, what do you do?” She pauses for dramatic effect, then lifts a flippant hand. “Nothing. Only make yourself more blind.”

I sigh, resisting the urge to push my glass up my nose. “Thanks, Ma.”

Her brows pull together. “What are you sitting around for? Don’t you have an interview today?”

My eyes widen. For a few minutes, it slipped my mind.

A glance at the lock tells me that an hour has passed by between the time I woke up and now. I was staring at a blank screen and pulling at my hair for a whole hour. It’s crazy how fast time goes when you’re losing your damn mind.

If I get accepted, I’ll be able to get a part-time internship while I complete my degree. It’s a shot at apprenticing at Collette, one of the big five publishing houses.