“Whoever said the pen was mightier than the sword never actually used a pen in combat…or maybe he did and now he’s dead.” Cole laughed.
“Or maybe he had a really amazing pen.” His mother, Anne, said.
“How amazing can be a pen be, mom?”
“You’re the writer, you tell me.” Anne said before looking at her watch… “Sweetie, I have to go.” She said getting up from the dining table where they had just had lunch.
“We never spend time anymore. You used to be the world’s awesomest mother.” He said getting up from the table as well.
“I’m still the world’s best mother…I just work nights now.”
“And sleeps all morning, the only time we have together are these lunches.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t miss them.” She said as he cleared the table. “You should stop by the club today, we could chill out back.” She said with a guilty smile.
“You know most mothers tell their kids to stay out of clubs till they’re twenty one.”
“I’m not like most mothers…so will I see you at the club today?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t…I’m working on something.”
“Okay sweetie.” She said getting up from the table and giving him a light kiss on his cheek. “See you during lunch tomorrow. I’ll let you get creative.”
Cole was sure his mother was gone by the time he was done with the dishes.“I’ll let you get creative.” His mother had said.
A year ago, Cole had the worst kind of writer’s block imaginable. He wasn’t able to even raise a pen. Besides his mother, writing was all he had. He had been so devastated losing the only thing he felt completely at home with.
Cole was good at a lot of things but writing was the one thing he was completely in charge of, he controlled the outcomes, he decided the fates of his characters and there were no external factors to say otherwise. His mother had been too busy opening her night club to take time to help him through it. However, she had been so bothered that she encouraged him to attend a writing camp hoping it would help.
‘Help’ was such a strong word; the camp had been a disaster. It hadn’t helped a bit. His stories had been monotonous and predictable. His teachers had applauded his writing style but urged him to think outside the box and become more creative.
As he walked to his room, he randomly remembered all the competitions he had won growing up, he was proud of his achievements so far but he was scared that that was going to be all for him. During camp, he met a fellow writer who had been through the same thing as he had; he also was gracious enough to let him in on how he got rid of it.
As Cole entered his room, he sat on his desk and switched on his laptop. He stared at the blank page he had just opened. He really wanted to try writing without the ‘helpful’ way he had recently been introduced to.
Hours later, not a word had been typed on the page. But he had to admit, the ‘helpful’ way had been amazingly helpful. He had had the most bizarre ideas, won two competitions and even started a book, a really good book. The kind he hoped publishing houses would scramble for.
He locked his room door before bringing out the bottle of vodka he had bought on his way back from school. He then reached under seat where he’d taped a little black bag in an attempt to prevent his mother from finding it.
She had always been so proud of him, he was her perfect son, her best friend and he never wanted to let her down. But his writing was also something she had been proud of, so in a way, he had hoped she would understand when she saw the result. The end justifies the means, right?
He took his laptop over to his bed with his bottle of vodka and little black bag. He opened up the bag and pulled out a transparent bag that was full of a white powdery substance. Cocaine.
The ‘helpful’ way he had been introduced to was drugs and alcohol. Before, even when his mother was drinking, he had never as much as sniffed alcohol but he somehow got into it.A year ago, Cole had the worst kind of writer’s block imaginable. He wasn’t able to even raise a pen. Besides his mother, writing was all he had. He had been so devastated losing the only thing he felt completely at home with.
Cole was good at a lot of things but writing was the one thing he was completely in charge of, he controlled the outcomes, he decided the fates of his characters and there were no external factors to say otherwise. His mother had been too busy opening her night club to take time to help him through it. However, she had been so bothered that she encouraged him to attend a writing camp hoping it would help.
‘Help’ was such a strong word; the camp had been a disaster. It hadn’t helped a bit. His stories had been monotonous and predictable. His teachers had applauded his writing style but urged him to think outside the box and become more creative.
As he walked to his room, he randomly remembered all the competitions he had won growing up, he was proud of his achievements so far but he was scared that that was going to be all for him. During camp, he met a fellow writer who had been through the same thing as he had; he also was gracious enough to let him in on how he got rid of it.
As Cole entered his room, he sat on his desk and switched on his laptop. He stared at the blank page he had just opened. He really wanted to try writing without the ‘helpful’ way he had recently been introduced to.
Hours later, not a word had been typed on the page. But he had to admit, the ‘helpful’ way had been amazingly helpful. He had had the most bizarre ideas, won two competitions and even started a book, a really good book. The kind he hoped publishing houses would scramble for.
He locked his room door before bringing out the bottle of vodka he had bought on his way back from school. He then reached under seat where he’d taped a little black bag in an attempt to prevent his mother from finding it.
She had always been so proud of him, he was her perfect son, her best friend and he never wanted to let her down. But his writing was also something she had been proud of, so in a way, he had hoped she would understand when she saw the result. The end justifies the means, right?
He took his laptop over to his bed with his bottle of vodka and little black bag. He opened up the bag and pulled out a transparent bag that was full of a white powdery substance. Cocaine.
The ‘helpful’ way he had been introduced to was drugs and alcohol. Before, even when his mother was drinking, he had never as much as sniffed alcohol but he now used it every day.
As soon as his mother goes to work, he would get out his secret weapons and put them to use. He was usually passed out before she returned and he cleaned himself up when he woke the next morning while she was asleep.
He had even found a dealer in his school that supplied him. His creativity now depended on these things he knew so badly that he shouldn’t be using.
He took a shot of vodka before he brought his nose down to the back of his note book where he had lined up the coke. He did what he had to do, it was in the name of art, he had told himself times without number. It was in the name of art.
