By Andrea Fuguet
The
words start to flow effortlessly out of the pen as soon as it meets the paper. He
knows exactly what to write, what to say. For once, his brain and the paper
have no trouble communicating with each other. He contemplates his work while
he takes his finger sentence by sentence, dissecting each word to find where
the mistake lies. He thinks it’s all
wrong and punches the desk sending his Mickey Mouse coffee mug into the
wastebasket.
He
crumples it and gets ready to introduce it to the coffee mug and the other
casualties that came from him attempting to write. His work lies in his hand waiting
for its fate. Is it good enough? Is he good enough?
The
self doubt and his insecurities start eating at his brain and his heart. They transform
into his mother’s voice telling him he can’t do it. You’re not good enough
Eric. Why go into writing Eric? Why didn’t you become a truck driver like your father?
At least he makes a living.
He
pictures his mother picking up his work in her hands. While her eyes scrutinize
each word on the paper, her heart isn’t feeling them. She frowns and wrinkles
her nose as if the manuscript smells like horse droppings and puts it down. It’s
decent Eric, but not good enough.
It’s
decent Eric, but not good enough. Those words replay in his head like an
annoying, catchy song. How many times has he sat down with a pen in his hands
ready to write something poignant, meaningful? But he’s not good enough. So everything
he starts to write meets a tragic end at the bottom of his trashcan.
This
particular piece of work wasn’t an exception.
He
wipes the sweat on his brow and checks the time. Two a.m. He better go to
sleep, he needs to give his mind and his mother a rest for the night. She would
haunt him tomorrow as soon as he picks up his pen.
His
wife, Eva, notices him go to bed next to her and the green light emanating from
the alarm clock that notifies her of how late it is. She turns to him and caresses
his hair softly like a mother would her child.
“Honey,
did you finish your mother’s eulogy?” she asks already knowing the answer.
“Yes.
It’s decent, But not good enough,” he says closing his eyes and turning his
back to her.
