The Day I Didn’t Become a Writer

I walked timidly down the stairs.

I had already failed at one career and my father, angry but understanding, was waiting for me to come up with my “next move”.

He was a businessman. Talented and successful and in love with what he did. The kind of love that made me think that business was all he understood. He had no time for silliness or insanity or day dreaming. He worked and he loved it.

“Dad?”

It had grown dark and he hadn’t noticed. That glowing white apple was all the light that there was.

“Dad, I want to be a writer.”

Silence.

It stretched long and empty. I filled it with words — or noises like words — and tried to explain. I think I’m good enough; I can work part time; I want to be creative; I want to travel… eventually, thankfully, I ran out of words.

I contemplated reading the dictionary out loud.

“If you want to be a writer, my darling, then write.”