C-C-C-Courage

Last night, actually, it was around midnight, so maybe it's be closer to this morning... anyway, around 12 I discovered something about myself; I am really stupid when it comes to my writing. Stupid, or brave.

So last night (it was last night at that point) I was writing my senior project independent task book (Above and Beyond, All About Death) and when I got so tired that my eyes started to cross... well, I'd like to tell you that I logged off the computer and went straight to the shower, but really, I read this awesome story on FictionPress called My Toaster Thinks I'm Crazy first. So after I finished reading about the Shakespeare-obsessed Abruzzi brothers' (Mecrutio, Benvolio, and Romeo's) antics, I hopped in the shower, and then went for my PJ's in my room. (Oh, two things I forgot to mention, my mom had already been asleep for like two hours [Her: Don't stay up too late. Me: I'm going to be right now.] and my door was closed as well as locked, I'm paranoid, okay?)

Now as I'm towel-drying my hair, and I hear people moving stuff around, heavy footsteps, that kind of thing. It always sounds like it's coming from my kitchen, but I live on the second story of an apartment building, so it's really my neighbors moving about their houses. Now biggie. BUT, as I'm pulling on my socks, something raps hard on the door... as if someone or something was trying to get in.

Yeah, holy crap, right?

My cat and I both stare at the door, terrified. Okay, I try to calm myself, if it's robbers, then won't they just be sorely disappointed. My cat, typewriter, and stuffed Nala are already in here with me. They can't get in, right? I'll just call the police... And then I remember that my phone's charging in the other room. My phone, my beautiful phone that I won in a review-writing contest in sophomore year, the phone that still gives me pleasure to tell people about.

The footsteps and movement are audible again and my cat hides under my bed. You know what? They can keep my phone, my contract's expiring March 1st anyway...

And then I remember my laptop. Now, I'm not that materialistic of a person, but if there's one thing I hold dear, it's my laptop. Why? Because it holds everything I've ever written, every character and plot, every work in progress, every typo I've ever made is on that laptop. And no goddamned robber is going to steal my plot holes, not if i have anything to say about it.

Now, being a girl raised by a single mother, I'm not very interested in sports. If you know me personally, you'll know that I'm not very strong, and if you had to bet on whether or not I owned any sports equipment, you'd probably go with not. So I guess I don't have to tell you that I don't own a baseball bat, every American's favorite means of protection from intruders (with the exclusion of the great state of Texas who tend to favor firearms). What I did have, however, was a strange childhood. And when I was ten, my cousin and I went through a sort of Rambo stage together, and the result was a forgotten pile of toy guns and one green and orange wooden rifle from Knott's Berry Farm hidden behind my dresser. I wasn't expecting to fool anyone with the rifle, even in the darkness the fact that it was a toy would be painfully obvious to all but a blind thief. The toy was, however, on the hefty, solid side, and I figured I could knock somebody out with its butt.

Thinking only of all the writing that could be lost to me, I opened the door, wielding the gun over my head, ready to strike. (It occurs to me now that I should have been worried about the academic projects saved to the hard drive, seeing as I'd been working on one chapter for the better part of six hours that same day. That might even be a good excuse for me to be killed over, but alas, I was thinking of the short story I'd written on Tuesday that no one had seen yet.)

As you might've already guessed, there were no robbers. The sounds in my kitchen had, in fact, been my neighbors. My entire home was utterly empty. The loud push on my door? The books at the very top of the hallway bookcase had fallen over and into my door, producing the sound.

So yeah, I felt like a total idiot for thinking that robbers had somehow crept into my house, (I check every lock and window like an OCD case every night) but at least I learned something about myself. I learned that I am, despite all previous notions, a dedicated writer. And yeah, maybe I don't spend my every waking second committing to my work, editing and plotting, but I'd face off a robber with only weak arms and a toy rifle for my manuscript, who else can say the same?

(Oh, and the toy rifle? It now occupies the space next to my bed, just in case I need to take care of any real burglars one day.)