Short Story

I. Can. Not. Do. This.
I, McKenna Taylor, cannot write a short story. I have been sitting, staring at a blank computer screen for almost two hours now, and not a single idea has come to me.
Mr. Wilkinson, my English teacher, said starting the story is the hardest part. He was beyond right. I keep trying to start it like this:

One day...

Nope.

In a galaxy far, far away...

No.

In a world...

No way. I even tried:

Once upon a time...

But every time I come up short, my writers block kicks in after a few sentences. As of right now, I don't have any ideas, no characters, no plot, no setting. This is way harder than I thought it would be when it was assigned.
My mother used to write entire novels in just a few months. She would get so lost in her world, sometimes she would be able to write all day. Dad and I would often have o go and tell her that she had to eat, or had to go to sleep.
I am getting nowhere. Every time I refocus, my mind wanders elsewhere, it's like it's telling me that I shouldn't write the story, that I can't write the story baca use of my history.
Dad will be home soon anyways. I should really start supper; he'll be hungry when he comes home. I shut off my laptop and put it away. Maybe I'll think of something tonight.

___

   "McKenna!"
   I jump out of bed, hearing my mother's voice, sweet and excited. I take a look at my clock, 11pm. She must have just finished a book. I open my door and run as fast as my 10 year old legs will carry me to her study.
   "McKenna!" My mother exclaims as I run into the room. "I finally finished it! I need to see if you can make it any better." She holds out the "book" to me. Right now it is just a duo-tang of papers. She always had me proofread her books before she sent them to her  publishers. I never change a thing because her books are always perfect.
"Can I read it now?" I eagerly ask her, fully aware that she doesn't know the time and that my chances for getting to stay up are pretty good.
   But with my heart dropping, I see her look at the grandfather clock in the corner of her study.
   "Sorry honey," she whispers, "it's late, so let's sneak you back to your room without dad noticing."

___

"McKenna."
"McKenna!"
"McKenna!"
I jolt awake and sit bolt upright in my seat. Mr. Wilkinson is staring at my intently, tapping his fingers on my paper more specifically, my blank paper.
I look around the classroom and all the desks are empty. I guess the final bell has rung and everybody left. My gaze lands on Mr. Wilkinson again. I internally cringe. He does not look happy.
"McKenna," he says, his voice firm but with a tinge of anger behind it. "Do you care to explain why your page is still blank?" He looks at me expectantly, like I'm supposed to know why I can't think of anything.
"Um, I-I don't know S-Sir," I stutter to him, making myself look like a fool.
"Well there has to be a reason as to why your page is blank after having an entire hour to write."
"I can't think of anything, Sir." I mumble, "I'm just not cut out to be a writer like my mom."
"Ah, so this is about your mom." He says softly m, his face immediately softening into a more sympathetic look. He brings a chair over to where I'm sitting. "You've read your mother's books, correct?" He asks me.
"All but her last one," I reply, the last part barely audible.
"So you know how she writes."
I just mumble in response, not really comfortable with speaking about my mom.
"What did your mom do for inspiration?" he pushes.
"I don't know," I sigh. "She always seemed to be able to pull them out of her head and know exactly what to do with them."
Mom was a great writer. Every single book she wrote was published and they were all best-sellers. She also won tons of awards for her novels. She had author of the year for three years straight. Mom was just plain amazing.
"You should go home and talk to your Dad about this," Mr. Wilkinson advises. "He might know more about your mother," he finishes, standing up and walking back to his desk.
I stand up and pack my things and walk out the door without saying a word to Mr. Wilkinson.
There is no way I'm talking to dad about mom.