Truth In/And Lies

So she wrote. She wrote hard, not worrying about spelling or grammar. That would take care of itself later. This writing was cognitive emesis. But they type an anorexic would do. She was figuratively stuffing her finger down her throat and forcing more and more verbiage out. Eventually it would dry up and she would have to put actual thought into the writing, but for now, she was going to cheat her ass off if it meant getting to her goal this time.
So she told him about her lifelong desire to be a writer (very true).  She told him of the one the one short story she had published (also true). She didn’t say the piece was picked for a contest in her college paper and was published because it won. Why she didn’t tell him this concerned her because it seemed like she was ashamed it was not published under more pomp and circumstantial merits, but whatever.
What she did tell him was that her daughter, 14 years old, was a budding poet. This was very true. Her daughter had the raw talent for poetry that she herself had as a short story writer or even a novelist (her creative writing instructor in college had commented on one of her papers that "there is a novel lurking here somewhere”) Sticking her finger down her throat once again, she told him that she desperately needed a copy of the issue of the paper that her short story had been published in in order to produce a sort of time capsule for her daughter. Apparently, she was suffering from an unyet diagnosed disorder that was affecting her cognitive abilities and she wanted to leave this gift for her daughter for the future in the unfortunate event that she became completely gaga. She wanted her daughter to know that she was cut from the same cloth of a writer, and not to give up on her writing.
In her mind, she was angry and humiliated, for this was pretty much what she had done. Doing this for her daughter would hopefully give her the inspiration to not give up.
She didn’t tell him that she was also trying to get her daughter’s poems published wherever she could, mostly online literary magazines as a sort of surprise to show her how talented she was. 
What she never told him, or anyone, at any time, was that her daughter would give up her talent and end up feeling like a waste of space. Like she had squandered and denied a precious gift. That she had never followed a dream because it might be too hard.  She never told her to keep trying even it was hard and that sometimes it could break your heart, but when you had even a small success at it, it was a feeling no one could even describe.
That was why she wanted that paper for the most part. To at least relive or pretend that she could have done something great, been something great, left a greater mark than what she had.
Why had she never told her daughter these things? Because she knew just from reading her daughter’s poetry that she knew she was supposed to hold on to her dreams, keep her head in the clouds, keep reaching for the stars, blah, blah, blah. But she also knew that the dreams and aspirations of 14-year-old girls had to be delicately and lovingly tended like a lush botanical garden so others would want to come and continue to come to behold it and have those feelings one has when they are witnessing something truly remarkable. Her own had been neglected. It was more reminiscent of a Brother’s Grimm story. Dark and scary with no clear paths. Barren trees and only hardy weeds capable of survival. But she had mostly done that to herself. She had never had much of a green thumb. She always seemed to pick the wrong road.  Maybe the easy road, the road with the big mistake at the end of it, the apathetic road, and all too often lately, she hopped to find the road with the final exit. Because it seems that after a certain time, if one doesn’t use a gift or talent they have been blessed with, the inner spark – or soul if you must – withers slowly. You may not even notice until it is only barely a flicker and you notice that you don’t care if it goes out. You are more interested in the flicker. Is it going out yet? Will that next little breeze blow it out for good or will it bring it more strength.  It becomes a gruesome business to watch the death rattle of your own talent and wonder how long it will take instead of being saddened.  When it goes out, will you grieve or will it bring sweet relief?
She never told him all that, but in some way wanted to.  Wanted another person to know what a crime she had committed.  To be flogged somehow? To be forgiven? She wasn’t sure.  She just knew she really wanted a copy of that story and then maybe she would know.