Novel & Cerita Person Writing

- He spoke a little discouraged. - You are not uninteresting, everyone has their own way of living, you are just simpler than other people, but this does not mean the opposite, nature is there to be observed and books to be read, without a reader, the writer is just someone who has created an unknown world that will never be read by other people, in this case it would only be a dream, something that only you can see in your head. - As I spoke, the man had a brilliant gaze, and seemed totally focused on what I was telling him.

Nothing. I do not text at 11:14 p.m. I am not going to be the person who texts at 11:14 p.m. I am not going to be the person who chases a man across Los Angeles. I am a person who is allowed to be a person. I am a person who has a candle and a couch and a small grey dog she has met exactly once, and I am a person who is not going to chase anyone.

"This is what my life is now." "That isn't an answer," he said. "That's a description of circumstances. They're not the same thing." "In my world they are." "Then your world has convinced you of something that isn't true." He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the table, his eyes not leaving mine. "What was it about? The writing. What did you write about?" I looked at my coffee. "People," I said, which was what I had told him about my painting and which was still true. "The underneath of people. The parts they didn't show."

The kind who had actually done the work instead of performing it for himself or anyone else. She opened the notebook she kept in the middle drawer. The pages flipped easily under her fingers to the one she wanted. Two fifteen in the morning after the premiere, heart still racing from the night, she had written the private version. The honest one with no pretty words or careful editing. Just what she actually wanted for herself, for them, written in her own messy handwriting. She read it slowly, line by line, letting every word settle again. Then she closed the notebook and rested her hand on the cover for a long moment.

That memory felt tainted now. Still crying, still angry, I marched into the kitchen and pulled out my checkbook.My fingers hovered over the top check. Just paper, but it felt like stone in my hand. Like if I wrote this, there’d be no walking it back. My throat burned. One deep breath, then another. I blinked twice and just… did it. Quick. Before my courage could blink too. My hand hesitated only once before I wrote it. One million. From my personal account. Under my maiden name, Sofie Davis.

“Stories. Essays. Anything. I’ve always been better with words than with paint. I like painting but… writing feels like I can finally say things I can’t say out loud. Even if no one ever reads them.” “What do you write about?” “People,” I say. “And all the ways they hurt each other. And sometimes… the ways they save each other.” She smiles faintly. “That sounds like a powerful way to process your own story.” “Maybe,” I say, and my voice sounds smaller than I want it to. “Or maybe it’s just a way to pretend it’s not mine.”

And lately, that picture has stopped resembling me. So I am writing this not as a designer. Not as a businesswoman. Not as a public figure. I am writing this as a person. As someone who has made mistakes. As someone who has chosen wrong before choosing right. As someone who has hurt and been hurt. As someone who still believes in the quiet power of starting over.

It was a pen that you fill with ink. "If I am the person writing my story then who is typing the words that are erasing my life?"

“I’m done having lunch with Mr. Anonymous. You want to tell me something? Say it now. Over the phone. Like normal people.” There was a pause on the line—short, but heavy. Then, quietly: “I’m a writer.” I blinked. “A writer,” I repeated slowly, more to myself than to him. “As in... books?” “No,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, even though he sounded nervous. “Well—sometimes. But mostly I write stories for brands. People. Companies. I help them find their voice. Sometimes under my name. Sometimes not. Depends.”

Please. I smiled widely as I typed. He was so cool. Me: Call me itchy fingers. Mystery man: Oh! Interesting. So, is there a story behind that name? I let out a breath before going back to typing. Me: Yeah! As the name sounds. My fingers are always itching to write everyday. Mystery man: So which means you write everytime your hands itches you? Me: Don't let me fool you, you are a writer like me, so I'm sure you can relate. You know there are times you really do want to write, but something comes upon you and you end up not writing more than a hundred words.