"If at first you don't succeed, try try again" -Thomas H. Palmer
|"Ella sacó un cuchillo." I wrote.
"What does that mean?" My friend Fabio asked. He was staying at my house for the week while his parents were on an anniversary.
"It means 'She took out a knife'. I'm writing a book for my writing club, and there's a girl in my class who came from Spain to live here, so I decided to make a Spanish copy for her, so she won't feel left out," I said.
He gave me a slight smile. I smiled back and continued writing, then paused.
"What's wrong?" Fabio asked.
"I'm trying to think how to say: 'I tried to run, but our eyes locked.' in Spanish."
"All I can think of is 'Yo', ‘corre' and 'pero', but that's about it," He said.
"Thanks," I replied, saying out the words as I wrote.
"'Yo', 'corre' and 'pero'. What does ‘pero’ mean again?” I asked him, thinking he would draw a blank.
"I'm pretty sure it means 'but', and you know which 'but' I'm talking about," He said, with a chuckle but as I looked him in the eyes, his eyes said: You do know which one I'm talking about, right?
I nodded, which sent his eyes back into the pretty cyan that they were. Surprisingly, his sister, Amiya, has his dad's green eyes, while he inherited both his mother's and his father's eyes.
I wish I could have his eyes.
Before I knew it, he was waving his hand in front of me saying, almost yelling "Earth to the Writer. Hey, how's the weather in Daydream Land?"
I started laughing, which told him his job was complete.
"I love your sense of humor, Fabio."
"And I like your sense of drifting off into Daydream Land, just by staring into my eyes,” I roared with laughter.
When I finally stopped, he said, “Oh, I kept forgetting, but your mom said you still need to do the dishes and—"
“‘Practice my monologue for theater.’ Yes I know. She’s told me a million times.”
“Then why don’t you do it?”
I sighed, then began talking in a flurry, hoping he wouldn’t start talking.
“Well, you know those times when you’re trying to write or create or do something creative and you get a mental block?”
“Well, that’s what’s happening here. I’m supposed to write a monologue about ourselves for theater—teacher’s orders—and I’m stuck!” I said in a huff.
“Well, where are you stuck? Maybe I can help? Where do we start?” He asked because that’s his personality: caring, loving and helping.
“Maybe where I left off?” I said, sarcastically.
“Yeah. Where were you when you stopped writing last?”
“Try: ‘Hi! I’m Bella Houser, but you can call me Beedee.’” I said, hiding my head in my arms.
I didn’t want to cry in front of Fabio, but I could help myself.
I started crying in my arms; the cries were muffled, but they were loud enough for Fabio to hear, so he could walk over and comfort me.
“Hey. Shh. It’s okay. All writers get the ‘Horrifying Mental Block of Writing’ from time to time. You know you’re not alone. Now, think. Are you sure you are the only one in your theater class who goes through this?”
“Well. Maggie does have the same thing happen to hear every time we work on our monologues at theater class, and you can always tell when Susie and Mandy are stuck because they talk about it.”
“See? You’re not alone. It’s like what Thomas Edison said when he was making the lightbulb: ‘I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.’”
“So, if you remember what he said, then maybe it will help you with your monologue.”
“Hey thanks, Fabio!”
“No problemo.” he said, with a smile so big, it almost reached his ears.
“Say, I have an idea!” I said, as a lightbulb went off in my head.
“Will you help me with my monologue?”
“But, I thought you said you had a mental block.” Fabio said, with a small smile.
“Fabio, I think you just broke the block into chunks.” I said, grinning.
“Well, then let’s tackle the beast you call a monologue!” Fabio yelled, pumping his fist in the air like he was watching something exciting going on in an arena.
"Hold on. I want to do something first." I said.
"What's that, Beedee?" Fabio asked, lowering his fist.
"Let's just take a few minutes to relax. I'm stressed out." I said as I walked over to my bed and plopped down.
"Alright-y." Fabio said.
We relaxed for a couple of hours, we read, talked, watched a movie and played a card game.
When we had relaxed enough, we went to work.
We worked on it for hours with short breaks to eat and go to the bathroom, but at ten something—we were working so hard, I forgot what time it was—the monologue was proof-read several times, typed onto my laptop, printed and read a dozen times to make sure it didn’t have mistakes.
A few minutes later, we fell asleep—Fabio in his sleeping bag in the living room and me in my bed—excited for the upcoming theater class.