Draft

I felt the pen in my hand. The ink oozing off the tip as new words were given life. "This is shit," I said crossing out the page. I slammed the table in frustration. It didn't come out just right. It never did. Suddenly, I heard a faint whisper in my ear. My heart raced with desire. I almost couldn't contain myself. Then it stopped. "This isn't good enough," I said, tearing out the page and crumpling it. My dear vanished. Leaving me alone again. "Time to start over." I rewrote my day. "This time, it'll be perfect."

I followed the script as it went on. Leading me to one great thing into another. Nothing surprised me anymore. Everything was as good as I could imagine. I wore the best clothes money could buy. I spoke all the right words at all the right times. The punch line that broke the awkward silence into an uproar of laughter, or the playful flirts that filled her face with glee. I had everything I wanted. Everything I could write about that is.

The theatre was as grand as Carnegie Hall. Unusual for a high school. The crowd roared in delight after each act. The next one seeming better than the one before. "Wonderful!" they cheered. I found myself by the backstage door. The door was locked, but I wanted a way in. "There is a key in my pocket," I wrote to myself. There it was. Knock and it shall be opened unto you. I walked in to see an actress furiously scribbling away on a pamphlet.

"Estelle?" I called out. "What are you...doing?" I asked. I felt a bit uneasy to be intruding, but it didn't matter anyways if I could make myself feel better by the dash of a marker. I got no reply, so instead I looked to see what she was up to. I noticed the names of several well known critics. The big time producer types that scoop you up and take you to Hollywood. My eyes widened. She had crossed out their reviews and made them better. Tears ran down her cheeks. As the reviews gotten better, I could hear the crowd cheer louder, and louder. But it wasn't enough. The critics weren't good enough to write the perfect review for the perfect play. She'd have to do that herself.

I decided to walk out of the room. I'll leave her to that, I thought. I noticed a few more people along the way in front of a mirror writing something. They occasionally glanced up then looked back down in discontent. Writing and rewriting to get that perfect image.

I couldn't help but feel that this day felt too much like the last. Was I dreaming? I was on the bus by now, as the script instructed me. "Where should I be afterwards? Who would accompany me?" I glanced over to the seat in front of me. Was that... J.K. Rowling? What could she possibly be doing here? I glanced down at my script. I had intended for myself to come across a famous author for advice.

"Excuse me?" I asked. No response. I was about to call out for a second time when I had seen her writing something. Perhaps a new book? Then she crossed the lines out. And tore the pages out and began from scratch. I looked in horror as I saw her frantically scribbling down new events. Always discontent and unhappy. I looked around as I realized how we were all discontent with our lives. No matter how great we make ourselves out to be, we've always found more flaws with ourselves. It was never enough to please us. We could never exactly find the right words to appease us.

I got off the bus and pushed past all the unhappy faces glanced down at their notebooks. A small boy with an eager smile walked by. He didn't have a notebook. "Hey, you," I said to him. He stopped and turned around. "Hello, mister!" "Where's your notebook?" I asked curiously. He had been the first one I've seen all day without one. "At home," he said. "I like to write in it sometimes, but sometimes I like to play instead!" I was confused. "I don't understand?" I asked, "you don't use it?" "Only to make cool stories!" he said, "everyone else's is too boring," he laughed. "Yeah," I managed to smile, "I bet they are." "Anyways, I gotta go! I shouldn't be taking to strangers!" "Seeya!" I called out to him, but he was long gone. Off to live happily ever after.

Strange, I thought. I don't remember that being a part of my story. An unexpected, but nice, twist of events I suppose. It was a mistake, nonetheless, and it had to be erased. I tore out the pages and tossed them aside. I began to rewrite my day. "This time, it'll be perfect."