Dead Ends // Hugh Jackman

Chapter 1

"No one is going to make anything happen for you. Only you can do that."

That's what my therapist tells me. She says I need to make connections and network in order to achieve my dreams of being an author.

She's right, and I think that's what I hate the most. That I'm not putting enough effort into my passions. That I'm holding myself back from reaching my fullest potential.

We haven't gotten to the part on how I'm supposed to overcome my fear. Maybe it's because I haven't told her that yet. It's stupid. I should be able to discuss the irrationality of being so terrified of what will happen if I do accomplish my goals.

It's not failing that scares me the most. I'm used to that. Probably more than I should be, because I've gotten really comfortable with it that the idea of succeeding has become my biggest roadblock.

Sometimes I do wish someone would make it happen for me. I can only get so far on my own anyway. Someone else has the power to make sure my stories get published in order to have any chance at making a living off of it.

Don't get me wrong that sounds nice, but I want nothing more than to just be happy. For once, I want to feel a joy that elevates me both mentally and spiritually. The kind that not everyone has the liberty of feeling in this lifetime. I know only a rare few get to experience inexplicable happiness. I haven't even scratched the surface of it.

I get so caught up in it that half the time I end up doing nothing. I'll stare at a blank page of whatever plot I'm currently working on, write a few more words, and then call it quits. Truly, I spend most of my days procrastinating and drowning in a boiling pot of writer's block.

I'm not even sure that's the idiom I meant to use but it's too late to take it back now. It's already been written, and I've promised myself to just write and fix all those mistakes later. After all, it's only a first draft. I'll make a ton of edits before I even let someone else read it.

I've already made promises to family that once I finish, they can have the pleasure of being my first readers. I guess if it remains incomplete, I'll get lucky enough that they'll eventually stop asking me how much longer I'll be.

I tell them a couple weeks, but then those weeks go by, and I have nothing to share with them but three words I never actually say to their faces:

"I gave up."

I'm a rather poor excuse of a writer.

Maybe I hope to change that as I sit by myself at an empty table in Cafe Noir. My laptop is placed on the table in front of me. The screen as blank as ever. It's a neverending cycle of staring and not making any progress.

I guess I haven't entirely given up. I'm still trying. Not my hardest but still, it's something, right?

Heaving a sigh, I scoot forward and straighten my back. Like fixing my posture will suddenly give way to inspiration if I prop myself in a better position for typing.

To no one's surprise, it doesn't. It's more of a mental thing. I have to be in the appropriate mindset, and right now, I'm definitely not. I'm having a pity party and making the situation that much worse.

I need another coffee. I really don't but continuing to sit here and give myself a headache probably doesn't help much either.

What I actually need is to clear my mind. I've been here since noon, and it's a quarter past seven now. I frequent here so often that I've even become friends with most of the staff here.

Maybe that's why Carlos, one of two baristas here, is comfortable enough to approach me with a stern look on his face.

"Go home. You're scaring the other customers."