Why We Write
Luis stared at the blank Word document before him and dreamed of what he used to write about: his childhood, his relationship, his spirituality. He has written a personal essay about his grandfather that made his best friend cry. He has bared his soul to his readers, has even made a poem about engineering, his college course.
He looked outside the jalousie and saw the ricefields—vast and empty. Half of the scenery was the sky, and the other half plain greenery. His room, similarly, had unpainted concrete for walls and unvarnished plywood for ceilings. Everything was bare.
His phone vibrated. It was an email from the Ripple literary magazine.
“Good day. After reviewing a thousand submissions, we are sorry to decline your four poems…”
He scrolled past the consoling parts and deleted the email. “My time will come,” he thought. He pressed home and decided to catch up with some friends, so he tapped the little blue f.
The first post was of Panulaton’s. It was the local magazine where he has sent his grandfather-essay. The post was to announce the authors for its next publication. He opened the photo and looked for his name.
He closed the app and placed his phone beside the computer. My time will come. He exhaled, not sigh, just the normal exhale. He stared at the bare ceiling and contemplated his future and the future of his writing career. The semester will start again next week, and in two more years, he would become an engineer. He could go abroad and earn a big salary. He can quit writing.
He picked up his phone. There was a new email.
“Do you want to win $50 and get published? Entry is free!”
He raised his chest and chin and exhaled rather forcefully. His keyboard started clicking.