I always wanted to be a writer.Since I was a small child.My father was a painter,as in house painter,not canvas painter.My father went to work in the upper part of town,where skyscrapers lined the road and greenery was merely a fairytale.And most importantly,it was where the rich people live.

My father would come home every evening,telling my mother-a housewife by choice- about what Lady Birch said to Sir Charles,and what a mess Lady Hillary's house was.When I was a bit older,I wondered.Did my parents really even give a damn?

My father's stories about the lives of the grand ladies and sirs uptown were not my inspiration.I was nine when I wrote my first story.It was about a princess who turned into a butterfly everytime it rained.Her country was quite a dry one,so this didn't happen regularly.It rained for days.The ladies in the palace had nothing to do,so they tried to catch the butterfly.The princess ended up getting killed by her own mother,who placed the princess's butterfly body into a container without any air.

My stories and my inspiration came to me just suddenly.I could not explain them.

When I entered high school,I took Creative Writing.All the boys in the class mainly wrote about mysteries and the like.All the girls wrote mostly cliche high school stories.Oh you know,the ones where Josh Hotbod making out with Jessica Buxom or Cheryl Reject falling in love with her best friend's brother,Jon Drunk.That type.Well,there was one girl who wrote about the life of an adventurous frog,but it wasn't that great.The girl was dyslexic anyway,and her stories were almost incomprehensible.

I wrote stories about life.About the everyday people that you see.People who go to the bar after work,people who married their high school girlfriends,people who were depressed.But i added a twist in my stories.To show how life can be overcome by an unexpected hardship.I grabbed the teachers' interests,but not the students.I guess they were more interested in the lives of Cassie Nerd and Eric Quarterback.

During lunch time,I would sit by myself.I used to have a best friend,her name was Justine.When we entered high school,she changed.It wasn't into something good either.She went totally fake.She stopped talking to me,and talked with the cheerleaders instead.She started going out with guys,and planned a party while her parents were on vacation.I naturally,was not invited.But I heard from rumours that she and the school soccer team captain spent about three hours in the kissing booth.I was filled with envy.Not because she made out with the soccer team captain-I didn't give a damn about that beer guzzling S.O.B-but because the only guy who ever expressed non platonic feelings to me was this fat,chubby guy who moved away three months after admitting his feelings to me.

The only people I sometimes sat with were the teen mothers of the school.They were nice people,they were mothers-to-be,of course they were sweet.I felt somehow indebted to them,for letting me sit with them,eventhough I was not a teen mother like them.

During free period,I would go to the library and read,or write.Sometimes I hated being alone,but I took my solitariness as an advantage.It would be nice to have a friend,but who wants to be accompanied all the time?

I managed to graduate with great results.I was offered a scholarship by the state government.Unfortunately,three weeks after settling into my new institute of education,my parents passed away in a crash.The news broke me into two,and it still hurts sometimes.

After four years of studying English Literature,I graduated without any family members.I was one of the best students in my batch,and many professors wanted to  take their pictures with me.I was grateful for this,because it mean I didn't have to face the questions by my mates on why I was alone and why my parents weren't there with me.

I took up a job at a daily newspaper,writing stories about politics and scandals.The job was-and still is-a complete bore.Politics did not excite me,but I had to earn money somehow.

As well as working at the daily,I wrote story books.I have an editor,whose name is Eddie.Eddie looks like he just came out straight from a Rocky movie.He's 48 years old,and smoke cigarettes.But overall,he's a good editor.Three of my books are already published.That seems like a pretty good accomplishment,doesn't it?Well,three out of thirty eight books I sent to the publisher got published.That leaves an uncomfortable thirty six more.

Eddie called me five minutes ago,asking me to come down to his office.I took my coat-it's quite cold here in New York,especially in November-and made my way downtown.I knocked on Eddie's door and helped my way in.Eddie was sitting on a chair,cigarette in his mouth.

'Hey Ed,'I said,pulling a chair next to him.'What's up?'

Eddie took a pile of paper on his table and plonked it on my lap.

'Rejected,'he said,smiling at me sadly.I looked down at my story and sighed and put my hands to my temples.'Third one this month,'said Eddie,pointing out the facts to me.

'Why?'I sobbed,I started crying.

'You're targeting the teens right?'Eddie asked,handing me a box of tissues.
I nodded.

'The publishers like it,Maddie...it's just that the kids don't,'he said softly.

'Of course they don't.They're just an unhappy lot,'I snapped.
'Why'd you say so?'asked Eddie,confused.
'Obviously.The reason they're interested in high school cliche books is because they never had a happy high school life.That resulted in their interest in high school perfection,because they never had it.'
Eddie opened up a pack of chips and began shoving them into his mouth.'Go Ahead,'
'Simple,Ed.They never had that perfect high school life.These people probably had a traumatic high school experience,thus their interest in the high school lives of others.'
'Not all of them,Madeleine,'
'Well,yeah.But you don't really see head cheerleader writing a story book,do you?'I asked him.
'Maybe you're right,Mad.But I can't help you with your book,'he said,putting the empty packet of chips on the floor.I nodded and looked at my feet.
'Maddie,I've been an editor not just for a month,Mad.I've been an editor for thirteen years.I know how it feels to be rejected,Mad.I've seen writers killing themselves after their first two stories getting rejected.The publishers can be harsh,Mad.You have to be strong,'said Eddie,full of advice.
I just nodded and picked up my coat,ready to make a move.
'Hey,Josephine wants you to come for dinner.Toby misses you too,'said Eddie.
As nice as dinner with Eddie and his family sounded-Josephine's meat loaf is to die for-I didn't want to go,not now.
'Nah,it's okay.I got something to do first,'I said,pushing the door.
'Whatever you say,Mad.See ya round?'said Eddie as he waved.
I nodded and walked out.I kicked the pebbles that lined the road.I wondered what to do next.Get dinner.Write.Read.I gave out a loud sigh.I felt so controlled,I didn't feel free.I started to run back home at full speed.I started laughing the whole time.I reached home,panting.I spent my night on the floor,laughing to completely nothing at all.

The next morning I was in a more stable mood.I realized that my books have been rejected for the umpteenth time and that did not mean I had to give up.I made breakfast and set out on foot.I had planned to write a story about teenage mothers in high school.I wanted to tap their feelings and pour it into a story.I knew that the story would acquire some cliche expressions and experiences,but that could not be helped.Jeopardizing my self identity as a writer for money was not a good thing to do,but I wanted people to buy my book.Not for financial reasons,the daily sometimes paid more than enough,but for mankind.I simply could not imagine what the next generation would be like if all they read-and did-were about drugs,alcohol and sex.I felt a responsibility.

I knocked on a door that bore the sign 'West Teen Shelter'.The door was answered by an expectant young lady,well,about my age.

'Hi,my name's Madeleine Mahoney and I'm a writer.I was just wondering if I could-'
'Madeleine Mahoney?'the lady asked.
'Yeah,yeah,Madeleine.Mahoney.You can call me Maddie,'I quipped.
'Hey,Maddie.Don't you remember me?'the lady said,smiling broadly.I looked at her closely,and her face seemed familiar.
'Jessica Dugard.Jessie.You know,the teen mom!'she said,smiling sneakily at the words teen mom.Suddenly,I remembered her.I used to sit with her in high school.
'Oh,Jessie,Hi!'i said,hugging her.
'Mind the baby,Maddie,'she said,laughing.'Come on,come in,'she said,ushering me in.

Inside,there were a lot of teenagers sitting down,reading,doing each other's hair.There were also some babies crying.There were people laughing.Jessica took me to a table away from the noise.I sat down,and she did the same.

'Okay,Maddie.We all know you're not here because you're expectant,'she said,laughing.My cheeks turned red as she said those words.I knew my lack of sexual experience would certainly bring some laughs.Jessica saw my cheeks turn red and smiled.

'Come on,what brings you here,Maddie?'
'Well,I'm a writer now-'
'Oh wow,you're a writer now?I knew you'd be one someday,Maddie.You were always with your books and-'
'Yeah,I'm a writer.So I was thinking of writing about the mothers here,'I said.Jessie looked at me suspiciously and then smiled.

'Sure,Maddie,be my guest,'she said.I stood up and walked into a room where most of the mothers were.Talking to them was really great.They told me stories about the view of the society,the parents,the boyfriends,fighting abortions.They seemed more interesting than I thought.

I wrote the story.Guess what.It was bestseller.

-Hanis Syahira

Labels: inspirations

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