Claire Solomon

Leaning forward in my desk, eyes glued on the clock, I waited for my American
Literature class to end. It was a beautiful Thursday afternoon, sun shining through the
window, birds chirping in the air. We were coming into the homestretch of a long week
of quizzes and late nights studying everyone was looking forward to the weekend.
My burly English teacher stood at the front of the room, looking up at the class of
restless high school sophomores from behind his tiny spectacles.
The school is having a short story contest. Winners will be published in the
annual literary magazine and receive prizes in the form of gift cards. I know youre
jumping out of your seats, folks. I expect each and every one of you to submit a piece.
A collection of unenthusiastic sighs and groans filled the room.
I dont have time for this, one of my classmates whispered angrily. I already have so
much work as it is. I slouched back in my seat, silently agreeing to my peers
complaints.
Taking heed of the teachers sarcasm-laced instructions, that night at home, I sat
cross-legged on my bed, balancing my MacBook laptop on my knees. How hard could
this be? I had always excelled in English and composition classes why not set out to
win an actual contest? I opened a fresh new Microsoft Word document and bit my lip,
remembering my eagerness to write when I was a nave elementary school student
Click! Click! Click!
Six years earlier, the nine-year-old version of myself pressed my fingers firmly
into the chunky keys of the family desktop computer, eyebrows furrowed in
concentration. The stream of soft clacking from the keyboard filled the air with a constant

melody as I leaned forward, face inches away from the illuminated computer screen. My
mind was buzzing with an unorganized cloud of ideas and words, my heart beating
rapidly in my chest. Letters appeared steadily on the blank Microsoft Word document. I
paused after several minutes, leaning back in my chair, inspecting my work.
While most kids in my elementary school looked forward to sitting in front of the
TV for hours after school, playing video games or watching Disney Channel, I waited in
anticipation every day for the chance to finish whatever short story I was working on. If a
concept for a composition danced around in my brain during class, I would scramble to
find a pencil and paper, intent on scribbling the idea down before it could evaporate from
my mind. During typing classes, my fingers flew over the keyboard, limber from hours of
practice.
Wow, Claire! Youre really practicing those typing skills, arent you?
I would nod rapidly, unable to hide the proud grin spreading across my face.
At home, I would let the ideas that were swimming in my head pour out onto the
Word document. What should I write about today? I would ask myself, scrolling
through the digital folders of my half finished stories. When I came to a roadblock, I
would lean back in the cushy chair and swivel in circles until the dam in my mind broke.
Every now and then, my parents would wander into the room, leaning over my
shoulder, squinting at the screen.
What are you writing about now? I would answer them in a firestorm of words, unable
to pause between sentences as I explained the plots of my latest stories.
Well, isnt that neat! Dont forget to come up for later for dinner!

My stories ranged in genre from a happy romantic tale to a gripping mystery story
depending on my mood. A girl working at a bakery, a brother-sister duo in search of a
their kidnapped pet dog, or a group of friends on the verge of becoming famous my
ideas flew around in my head quicker than I could record them out on the virtual paper.
I had never shared my stories with anyone besides my parents who, of course,
had to give me words of encouragement, being my parents and all but as I sat alone in
my room, a fifteen year old high school student, a small ball of eagerness and motivation
brewed in my stomach as I let my fingers once again fly across the keyboard as they had
done six years previously.
My writing process remained the same - the constant taps of the keyboard in a
silent room, my face inching closer and closer to the bright screen as I concentrated, and
the Word documents, filling slowly, weaving together a complete tale.
The assignments due date rolled around a week later. As I turned in my finished
piece, I felt the same proud relief that a runner feels after a challenging marathon as I
walked to the front of the room and handed my teacher the crisp pages of my finished
product.
We didnt hear the announcement of the winners until a month later, and the news
was delivered to the whole school over the booming intercom. The anticipation I felt was
like sitting at the front of a rollercoaster as it slowly made its way to the top of a tall
slope. Each moment that passed built my excitement more and more, until I was at the
top of the hill, leaning over the edge of the drop. I heard my name announced as the
second place winner. Although I wasnt first place, my heart was filled with a mixture of
satisfaction, joy, and giddiness.

I thought of the little nine-year-old version of myself sitting in her swivel chair,
face illuminated by the computer screen as she hastily typed out sentences, painting a
picture with her words. To the world, she might have been just another grade-schooler
spending too much time inside, but she felt like Michelangelo sculpting the David, or
Leonardo da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa. She was creating her own masterpiece, the
next F. Scott Fitzgerald or J.K. Rowling the possibilities (and possible plotlines) were
endless.