The Lovely Writer by Matt Hsu (17, California)

They call us visionaries. Sorcerers who tailor statues with a flourish of the hands, weavers who stitch dreams with gold gossamer thread, virtuosos who sleep in the skies and marry the clouds. They call us adventurers. Voyagers who foray through unmapped territory and chart the paths for others on crisp scrolls. Daredevils who juggle knives and speak in tongues of flame. They call us nonconformists. Rebels who cannot be bound by ropes, chains, or promises.

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We writers lounge at our desks, smoking an oak pipe. We nibble on cheese and slices of bread, while sipping whiskey with candied lemon. Peacock quills held loose between our fingers, we etch fantasies into tea-stained parchment, only the shadows of our stories detectable in the flickering candlelight. No one knows where our motivation comes from; perhaps the dying raindrops on our windows, or maybe the scents of saffron, eucalyptus, and vanilla bean, drifting from faraway lands.

To this, I scoff with a mouth full of tortilla chips.

My desk is a warzone of stray papers and textbooks opened to assignments unfinished, of emerald chocolate wrappers and stubby pencils shivering in their jars, of flickering lamps and half-empty receptacles of lip balm. A graveyard of unanswered prayers, broken pleas, a battered soul.

I write with blood, not ink. My fantasies are a haven for the baby fires, too fragile for the winds of this world. 

I fashion characters from my own bones. Jake, a talented mathematician hiding insecurity behind snark. Xi Ann, a foolish, yet optimistic teen, stumbling through a vicious world. Richard, a brilliant student with debilitating anxiety. Fletcher, a young soldier carrying many weapons and a conflicted heart. Choking down the bitterness, I give them the happy endings I haven’t yet found for myself.

Only my own creations won’t stab me in the back.

In truth, the worlds fabricated in my pages are not inconceivable. There are still rotten apples, soggy croutons, and desks with bubble gum stuck on the underside. Still thunderstorms, wars, and funerals. Still broken glasses, broken wrists, and broken hearts. Yet in these worlds, I know everything will be alright; there are enough band-aids and shelters and rainbows for everyone. I write answers to the yoke of questions over my shoulders. 

My life is a battle; every breath comes with a thought, every step with a regret, every smile with a fear. My heart and my brain struggle for control over my body, whom in turn collapses from exhaustion. My days are overwhelming, overcrowded, and overflowing. I can only juggle so much, so I lean on a crutch of pen, paper, and self-deception.

I own many masks. I’m an adjudicator; my declarations are an irrefutable gavel. I’m a wicked king; my crown is bejeweled with the eyes of those who looked too long. I’m a musician; my saxophone is a hypnotic lure of arpeggios. I’m an army tactician; tanks and battalions follow my index finger. I’m a soothsayer; I play poker with tarot cards and draw deaths on palms. I’m a lawyer, a wizard, a leopard, a stunt double, an acupuncturist, I’m anyone that isn’t this shivering, impotent creature, tucked away in reverie because there’s nowhere else to hide.

I don’t write narratives. I don’t write stories. I write delusions.