A conversation with myself
The air conditioner sounds like a low hum through my headphones while Sigur Ros plays on repeat. I put my glass of scotch down and stare at the monitor in front of me.
“Chapter 6”
The word count at the bottom was climbing steadily for a while but it seems like now the only thing rising is my frustration. I rest my head in my hand and stare at the calendar on my desk.
“JULY 2nd- Work 2-9 Write 9-12am”
“JULY 3rd- Work 2-9:30 Write 9am-12pm”
I look down at my fingers and crack them one by one. The baby rustles in his crib and I decide to stop before I wake him up. I take another drink from my glass and look back at the screen.
“2,163 words 11,415 characters”
I lean back in my chair and sigh. While I lean, the chair pops and groans as the metal frame and plastic rub against one another.
The screen dims and I shut my eyes. I can just write more in the morning, I added a few hundred words to this chapter. I read through the last paragraphs that I wrote and midway through a sentence the screen turns black and the words that had filled the screen are now replaced with a mirror image of my face.
I poke at my sunken eyes and pull the skin on my cheeks.
“Is this what I look like?”
My reflection stares back at me and laughs.
“Yah, most of the time, but don’t worry, you’ve looked worse before!”
I look back down at the calendar and take a deep breath.
“I should go to bed, I need to wake up early and write, help take care of the kids, and then go to work.”
My reflection chuckles at me and shakes its head.
“You really wrote yourself into a corner here didn’t you?”
I look up and raise an eyebrow.
“What do you mean by that?”
My reflection leans back in his seat and pulls his hand through his hair.
“What I mean is that you left your full-time job so that you could write more, and now you don’t have enough money to take care of your family. Not only that but when you do go to work, you have to work harder, and for less pay, just to prove that hopefully you will be worth a promotion to a job that is below the job you used to have. Just so that you can pay the bills you can’t pay now. The best part is that no matter you do, you feel guilty that you’re not doing the other 2 things. When you’re at work, you want to be with the kids building memories and helping out or doing what you really want and writing. When your with the kids you feel guilty that you can’t buy them new clothes or toys, so you want to go finish your book, or get a few more hours in at work. Then when you sit down and write, you feel guilty that you are leaving the kids with your wife, and that you’re not doing something to help support the family more.”
My reflection takes a drink and coughs.
“It’s pretty fucked up you know, I’d be feeling pretty depressed if I were you.”
I bite my lip and rub my eyes.
“It’s not like that, I know my family loves me and Stef want’s me to succeed with my writing, that’s why we moved here in the first place, so I could write more and Stef could get more support from family”
My reflection leans back and puts his hands behind his head.
“So your saying life is better here?”
I look at my reflection for a few seconds and scowl. His dark sunken eyes glare back at me through the dark.
“I’m happier here, so yah, my life is better. Besides, I have written more since I got here then the whole time I was in Florida. I have people who I’ve never met who read thing’s I’ve written and think it’s pretty good! It all take’s time, you’ll see.”
For a few seconds we both sit silently and I clear my throat. My reflection nods his head toward the baby crib behind me.
“So you think in ten years your little hobby will be putting him through school? Or do you think that you’re gonna go crawling back to your old job so that you can pay the bills?”
I look at the keyboard and the calendar under it.
“I hope that my children understand someday that I followed my dream, and even if it doesn’t lead me anywhere I hope they can respect that.”
My reflection shakes his head and rubs his eyes.
“Just like your friends respect you?”
I look up and catch his eyes.
“That’s not fair.”
He leans forward and squints.
“So how many of your friends actually bought copies of the book? Ten? Fifteen? How ’bout your own family? How many of your own flesh and blood read your book? How many do you think even downloaded it for free?”
I look back at my hands and lay them flat on the desk.
“It’s not about that, most of my friends and family don’t read too much so it’s not like they are the demographic I was aiming for.”
“Maybe you should have started taking pictures? You know people can just click, see the picture, give it a thumbs up and move on. How long does it take to read just one of your stories? How long does it take to write just one of your stories? For that matter how many hours did you sink into that story that you ended up throwing out anyway? How many hours have you written, and how many hours do you think people have read what you’ve written?”
For a few seconds I stare back at the screen and look into my reflections deep sad eyes.
“When do you want to give up?”
I look back and give a small smile.
“There are two types of motivated people: People who are driven to succeed monetarily even if it means sacrificing their dreams, and people who are driven to fulfil their dreams even if it means sacrificing monetary success. I think we both know which group I’m in.”
I click my mouse and my reflection fades as my story comes back onto the screen. I can write a few more lines before I fall asleep.
My Collective Conscious 