She wanted to be a writer, even if all she had ever written was a single short story in 764 words, 8699 letters, including the blanks. Sometimes the spaces between the words or the width of the margins were the best parts of her work. Each draft of this same story had different layouts. Every morning she went through each word and sitting behind her desk, dreamed of replacing it with another word.
Did she ever do it? Who knows?
She carried the latest draft in her purse and anywhere she went, she brought up the subject of writing and discussed the reasons why one writes.
There was a kind of determination in her voice that made people trust her judgment. All strangers believed her story must have been a masterpiece. Everyone except her, because she was also a stranger in her dreams.
Yet, nobody was curious enough to push her to take the story out of its hiding, and to read it out loud. Because she didn’t know how to pronounce the blanks and the spaces in between.
LifeAcrossTheSun 