Fiction Friday: A Lunch Time Revelation

Peace. Quiet. Tranquility. That was all that I was seeking as I sat at my desk eating a cup of soup. It was the perfect lunch for a cold, wet, rainy day.

The violent tap on my shoulder shook me from my reflective reverie.

“You really shouldn’t be sitting here staring off into space,” he said, grabbing a chair from a nearby empty desk and placing it next to me.

 
“There must be something in this soup,” I muttered, putting the spoon down and pushing the soup away.

“Oh, no, my friend. The soup isn’t spiked,” he said.

“It’s not? Then why the hell am I hallucinating?”

“Your brain is trying to tell you something.”

“Really? And having you roll up during lunch time is telling me what, exactly?”

 
“It’s time,” he said, reaching over and grabbing my abandoned soup. He took a sip from the bowl and gently placed it back down on the desk.
 
Time?” I wondered

“Time to unleash your imagination. Stop holding me back, pushing my off to the side It’s time to tell my story.

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” I wondered.

 
“Well,” he said, “you take your hands, see, and you use those things at the end called fingers. They really are quite remarkable tools. They’re capable of holding a pencil or a pen or typing away at a keyboard.”
 
“Spare me the sarcasm,” I said, abruptly standing up and walking away from my desk. He sprang up and fell into step beside me as I marched out of the office and down the hall.

“Are you really just cutting and running? You’re not serious, are you?"

 
“Um…yup!” I said as I kept walking.
 
We walked out the front doors and into the parking lot. I wasn’t trying to leave the office; I was just hoping that he would leave me alone and let me be.

He grabbed my arm. “Look, just hear me out, okay?”

 
I stopped walking. “Okay. I’m listening.”
 
“Here’s the deal. You’ve had me kicking around your head now for a little over ten years. And while your brain is a lovely environment at times, it can be a little daunting living in there. I understand you’re afraid to fail. But if you don’t even make an effort, then how do you know that you’re going to fail?”

“I…I don’t know,” I admitted.

 
“Furthermore, the first draft is going to suck. It’s supposed to suck. It’s a draft. Simply putting the words onto the page does not automatically encase them in amber, preserving them for all of eternity.

“But you have to get it out of you so that it can be improved and refined. You write about sports. You watch a lot of sports. You’ve played sports. You coach sports. How do you get better?”

“Practice,” I mumbled half-heartedly.

“Louder, please.”

“Practice!” I shouted.

He smiled and nodded. “The only way to practice is to get reps. The only way to get reps is to commit to the activity and see it through. Don’t worry about not being perfect the first time out. The only way to hone your craft and get better is to work on it every day. Even if only for a few minutes. Got it?”

“Got it.”

 
We shook hands. I turned to walk back inside the building. He didn’t follow me. When I looked behind me to see if he was still there, he had vanished.