Anonymous

My hand flew to my mouth and the tears sprang from my tear ducts as I read and re-read and re-read the comment that was sitting in front of me. How was it possible that someone enjoyed my story that much? Most girls just said they liked my story or fangirled on the comments. No one had ever given a real coherent comment, detailing all the specific things they liked about my story. It meant so much to me.

Sniffling and blinking a couple times to get the tears away from my eyes, I clicked on the girl’s profile to respond.

She didn’t have a picture yet, which was totally common with new members, as she said she was. And, also not surprisingly, she didn’t have any comments yet.

Clearing my throat, I started to respond to her comment.

Okay, so as is customary on the site, I’m responding to you to thank you for your comment. It actually made me tear up with how beautiful it was. I can’t tell you how important it is and how much it means to me that you think so highly of my story, especially after only a few chapters.

Also, I really have to thank you for writing such a well-thought-out comment. Your feedback is going to help me advance the story, I think, and I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing. But thank you so much for taking the time to read and comment on my story, and I look forward to hearing from you in the future. :D

I posted the comment and clicked back to the website home page, biting my lip. And, just like it was planned, a small red notification popped up on the bottom left of my screen. New message from SOME-ARE-THE-BEAT.

Grinning, I clicked on the notification and watched as the screen flashed to the message string.

GOOD MORNING, DUDE. Well, it’s morning here. It’s night there. But whatever. How’s it going?

I answered quickly before sending off my message. I loved talking to Some-Are-The-Beat. She was such a sweet soul, and she was always there to encourage me when I needed someone.

Although Elena was my best friend, she really didn’t get the whole writing thing, why it was so important to me. Which is why I was so fortunate to have met Some-Are-The-Beat on the site; she understood me, helped me when I had writer’s block, and I felt like I could talk to her about anything, even though she lived in the States, and we’d never met in real life.

I brought up the separate document website that I used to write, simply for the purpose of being able to continue my stories wherever I went, and debated at the list of stories in front of me.

In my heart of hearts, I knew I should have worked on my Harry story. After all, I hadn’t updated it in about a week and a half. My Niall story had been waiting for a week. Thankfully, my Liam story and two Zayn stories had gotten updated on Wednesday, when I was on a writing-roll.

But, despite the nagging guilt of not paying equal attention to all my stories, I clicked on my Louis story. There was something about the girl, TakeMeHome, that made me want to write more. I wanted to develop those characters so well that she continued to feel that she knew them personally. I wanted to keep pacing my story at an appropriate speed.

I wanted to be perfect, for all my readers: past, present, and future.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, the words springing from my mind with newfound inspiration.

After I fired out a page, I clicked back to the website and found another message waiting for me from Some-Are-The-Beat.

Ahhh, that’s awesome! :) And I’m sorry about your cousins. They sound kind of awful.

And I’m doing just lovely. I’m about to update my newest story, by the way. :D I love this chapter. It’s so cute.

I could feel the butterflies fluttering in my stomach with excitement. Some-Are-The-Beat had the most awesome stories, and when she liked her chapters, it meant that the chapter was basically on another plane of human beings. When she disliked her chapters, they were still written better than anyone else, as far as I was concerned.

I responded with enthusiasm, not able to keep the huge smile off my face.

Just as I was about to enter a writing zone, I heard the door behind me open. Immediately, I jumped and freaked out, closing the website to keep anyone from seeing my story, thankful for the auto-save feature.

I turned to find my mother glaring at me angrily. “Jess,” she started, her voice low and scary, “what are you doing?”

“Um…” I trailed off, not making any kind of eye contact with her. “I’m writing. On the computer.”

She folded her arms in front of her ample chest, making her look even more menacing. “I thought you were going to spend time with your cousins. You don’t get to see them very much, and I think they’d like to have some form of entertainment.”

I didn’t want to bring up the fact that I hated my cousins, so I argued a different point. “What about Maria? Why are you not yelling at her to spend time with them?”

“Because you’re their age!” she retorted. “While they love Maria, she’s a little too young to be hanging out with them. They want to talk to someone their age.”

I opened my mouth to say something back, but my mind wasn’t cooperating. Groaning, I shut it again, averting my eyes back to the computer. New message from SOME-ARE-THE-BEAT.

“Jessica Angelina,” Mom threatened, “get off that computer and go back into the game room with your sister and cousins. Now.”

‘Sorry,’ I mouthed at the computer, talking to Some-Are-The-Beat, not my mother, before logging off and storming back into the other room.

I threw myself on the couch, crossing my arms in front of me. I knew I was throwing a fit like a two-year-old, but I didn’t care. I hated how no one in my real life seemed to understand how much I loved writing and how much it meant to me. I was going to college for Creative Writing. I wanted to be an author. And there was no way I was going to get better if everyone was always interrupting me and forcing to spend time with people I hated.

Maria was so wrapped up in her game, her tongue poking out of her mouth as she pressed buttons on the control in her hands rapidly, occasionally making little grunting noises, as if she was the one throwing kicks and punches, not the character on the screen.

“This is so lame,” Frankie muttered from his side of the couch.

He said it.