Alexis leaned back in her chair with a groan, glancing around the small study nook on the first floor of their dorm.
“What is it?” Vita glanced up from her own writing, peering across the table to where her friend sat.
“I keep writing poetry,” Alexis sighed, stretching her arms above her head, then rolling her neck side to side.
“And that’s a problem, why?” Vita asked.
“Because,” Alexis said, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. “Nobody reads poetry.”
“What?”
“When was the last time you heard of a famous poet, one who people outside of the literary world know? When was the last time a poetry book was a best-seller?”
Vita put her pen down, staring at her. “Wow. When did this happen?”
“What do you mean?”
Vita studied her. “When did you start caring more about the recognition than the writing?”
Alexis threw her hands up, nearly whacking one on the low-hanging light. “Oh, come on, Vita. You mean to tell me you’ve never stopped to think, ‘What am I doing this for? Who is ever going to read my work? Am I ever going to be able to be a full-time writer?’ You don’t worry about any of those things?”
Vita shrugged. “Not really. I write because I want to, because I enjoy it. Because I feel better, more myself, for having done it.”
Alexis just stared at her. “You do realize that’s not a sustainable way to write, right? You’re going to need some crap corporate job to support your writing.”
“I know that.”
“Then why the hell are you getting a creative writing degree?”
Vita shrugged again. “Because it’s what I’m passionate about.”
“Passion,” Alexis scoffed. “I hope whoever came up with that bit of career advice is unemployed.”
“Then why are you in the same major?” Vita shot back.
“Because!” Alexis said, the swore as her flailing hand hit the lamp. “Because,” she said, a little more quietly, cradling her injured hand, “I don’t know what else to do.”
Vita raised her eyebrows, waiting for Alexis to elaborate.
“It’s just…” Alexis continued, eyes flitting around the room, looking for the right words, “it’s just what I do. I write, I always have, and it’s what I’m good at. Or what everyone tells me I’m good at. And it used to be stories, you know, pages and pages of stories. But these days I can only get one page, if I’m lucky, and I keep defaulting to poetry, something I’m not as comfortable or confident with, and I don’t know why.”
Vita tilted her head, thinking. “Maybe,” she said, slowly, “your brain is trying to tell you something.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe poetry is what you are supposed to be writing right now. Or maybe that you need to change your focus, forget about making money by writing and just do it, for its own sake. I heard once that the Ancient Greeks believed that artistic creation came not from within us, but from daemons, spirits, some cosmic creativity that just used us to channel that energy into the world.” Vita picked up her pen again. “Maybe your daemon just likes poetry right now.”
“Demon is right,” Alexis grumbled, pulling her notebook closer. “Stupid thing just gave me another poem, thanks to that little speech of yours.”
Vita smirked as she watched Alexis’ head bowed over the paper, lines of poetry flowing through her as her hand flew across the page.
© The Lightning Tower, 2020