Maybe I wasn’t meant to be a writer. Perhaps I was not meant to do anything at all. That box between Friendly’s and Target could be waiting for me patiently. It was waiting for this moment, the moment that was meant to come. I mean I cannot have thought that I was meant to do something forever can I? It is obvious. Plain to the world apparently. Everything I have ever done is an utter failure. I quit, or…well no, I always quit. And do you know why, do you really want to know why? I quit because I am afraid of doing the work. I am looking for this God-given talent inside of me that I just simply do not have. I am nothing special. I am not gifted. I am just me. If only that was enough.

There was that one time that I tried to be an actress. I threw my life into a couple of these plays. But, when the auditions came along and I did not get the lead, well I quit.

There was also that time where I was going to be a runner. I ran everyday for a year. I ran, but never pushed. I never went to the extreme of breaking barriers. I broke one record, one personal record. Then I quit.

Once I was going to be a zoo keeper. I googled the classes one needed to take and signed up for them all. When I realized that the science of it all involved math that I could not comprehend, well… I had it coming.

I went through a singer phase, a photographer phase, director, teacher, journalist, national geographic member, and even a circus participant. However, by far the most intense of my failed passions was writing. I was, until today, going to be a writer. The picture was so clear in my mind. There I was, on Oprah or the Today Show talking about my book. It was already a sensation and it was only out a few weeks. Somehow the word of this new author spread so rapidly that it was almost as popular as Harry Potter. People, of course, had been comparing my writing to that of the best. I was the new J.D Salinger, the improved J.K Rowling. Everything changed from that moment on. Each day was filled with interviews and paparazzi filled my windows. I moved into New York City and dated this really handsome guy. My new book was already waited on and I bought a house by the ocean to write it in peace. But, as you may notice from my current standpoint of in between Friendly’s and Target that this did not happen.

It was only this morning when my coffee spilt all over my recent story that I realized I am not cut out for this. There is no way on Earth that I can make it as a writer. That website had sent an email telling me my piece was not needed at this point in time. So, I quit. It was refreshing. Now I have another day to restart and change all my principles. I can get a new roommate and change my address and take all new classes again. Starting over is really my specialty. I make lists. I am the Queen of lists.

Honestly, I make better lists than any person can even dream of. I start with the date and the time and I write a lengthy paragraph on why this new thing will significantly change my life and require a lot of work. I continue on to write down all the reasons I need to change and I need to do this because I am starting a new lifestyle. It makes everything seem so clear. Tomorrow I will start by eating a banana and googling the next new thing. I will research for the next few days and build up my life plan. The next phase is the notebook phase. Of course I have to go out and buy a new notebook, even though I have fifteen notebooks with only five pages filled out. A new notebook really makes the change official. Starting again requires the elimination of all evidence that I was ever something else.

I do not do what most girls do when they change their outlook on life. I do not go out and get a new haircut. My hair has been approximately the same thing for my entire life. I may go out and buy a few nice outfits, to fit my new look of course. I will act a little different around people, watching the way I talk and all. But, I am not like most girls. I am special.

Sometimes I find myself kind of sick by this whole process. I find myself lying down in bed staring at the ceiling and thinking not one thought. Just staring, sometimes for hours. It really is a great feeling, to feel nothing. No, that is a lie. Feeling nothing does not feel like much at all. But every now and then I look at my life and what I have accomplished and I measure it up against the world. Now the world is an awfully big place with an awfully dreadful amount of people. It takes a whole lot of starting over and soul searching to be special. Getting written into history is no easy task. I may find myself starting over many times.

I believe with every restart I feel this new weight. It sort of drags me down. I try to forget about it and pretend it does not exist. But every now and then I feel it really intensely. The only way to wash it away is to spend a day crying on the couch watching television. Give it a day or two and I am back in business. Starting over again.

My new address of a box might make these days rather difficult. I do not think I can fit a television in this box. It gets kind of tight. Maybe someone will notice me and see that I care an immense amount about the world and declare me a Nobel Peace Prize winner. No, wait, sorry, I get mixed up. Back to reality. My box. My lovely box. I am not really living in the box. I am actually in my apartment sitting in a box. I was staring at the box but sitting in it is a much clearer representation of my future. The tea kettle is buzzing. I do not normally make this much tea. But these nights of planning for my next novel have really kept me up late. I guess I can stop drinking tea. My non-author personality would not drink tea. Or maybe she would. I really do not know until I buy the next notebook.

“THIS PLACE IS A MESS. HONESTLY I LEAVE YOU HERE FOR TWO DAYS. COME ON!”

That is my roommate. Really she is a pleasure to have. Do not judge her on this moment. I do get rather messy at the end of a phase. I forget about my new neat rules and my clean persona. Clothes start piling up on every piece of furniture and I start to smell. Do not worry I still shower, I just, well I do not really know. It is the end of a phase let me be.

“Sorry,” I have to say. Not because I mean it. but because I really do not want to hear any yelling. I wish she stayed away for a few more days. I feel a movie marathon coming on.

“Why are you in a box?”

“What box?”

“Are you kidding me right now? You’re sitting in a box and talking to me like I am an idiot. Look. I just came from a really stressful interview and I do not have time to deal with your weird s*** anymore. Get out of that box and clean up this mess. I want my apartment back.”

When I said that she is my roommate I really didn’t mean it. Or I didn’t mean it in the traditional sense of the word where both participants are active and split the rent. No, this is her place. Only hers. I just crash here occasionally. Let’s just say for the last five months when I have done nothing but write the start and end of a novel that will never be read. First, because the coffee spilt on it and no one can read it anymore. Second, because my other thing got rejected at that website which means that nothing of mine is good enough. Third, I am just not a born author.

Everyone is supposed to have one thing that they are meant for right? Like my roommate Sarah, she knows what’s up. She is going out and becoming a journalist. One of my many failed professions. Well, not failed, I never really tried. But she went to a really good college and is now here in Boston going out for interviews and working hard. She is also dating this guy named Zachary. He comes over now and then, but I make things awkward so they spend most nights at his place. That is where she was right before this actually. I guess I am sort of jealous she has this beautiful shoulder to cry on when I get annoying. Sarah gets annoying too; all I can do is watch television about annoying people and think about how she is that person and then cry some more. It really is a dangerous circle I have started. Oh well.

I get up and start cleaning my things because I feel bad. She looks like she just was rejected. I know that look. It hurts. So I clean a lot. I clean the furniture and the kitchen. I even vacuumed. When I ask her what was wrong she doesn’t respond at first. Then she says, “It really isn’t anything. I got the job. But Zach got his too. In New York. I really do not know what to do.” She paused for a long while. There was a nail she kept playing with like it was more important than what she was saying. Once it was cleared from the finger she looked up and in one deep breathe declared, “and you really have to move out Clara. I cannot keep this rent up. Unless you actually get a job and stop eating all my food and wasting all my damn water! No, I am sorry, this is unfair. But, come on. Do you even see my point?”

“Yeah…I guess.”

“Don’t do that. You know I love you. But maybe you should spend some time with your parents you know. Maybe you should go back home and figure things out. Get you GED online or something. There are things you can do to get back on your feet.”

“I know, it’s just…”

“Clara I know things were tough. But it has been five years. You have done nothing for five years. And yes, it sucks that you had to go through that. But people go through tougher s*** all the time. I just. I am worried about you. Zach is too.”

She talks to Zach about me? She talks to Zach about me. They probably laugh about me. Some friends. “Sarah, how long have you wanted to say this?”

“No really don’t do that. You must know it too. You really cannot get down on yourself. You are a really good person and I just think you need to seek some guidance. I really cannot give you that anymore. Not with this new job, and not with new added stress of Zach and it all. It is hard enough without…”

“Without me. Yeah, you’re right. I will leave. I was going to start over soon anyways. Maybe I will find my own place and change my name to Georgina. I could go back home. I could. Maybe I will. But, congratulations on the job. That is really cool.”

“Thanks.”

“Your welcome.”

She goes into her room. I am left here with the box. I think it smiled at me.


The next day I wake up and call my mother. I must have forgotten how much of an early person I am because the first words I hear from her are, “CLARA WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING CALLING AT 4:30 IN THE MORNING! I finally had fallen asleep.”

I didn’t feel right continuing the conversation from that point on. So I said sorry I dialed the wrong number and hung up. I went for a walk. Boston is nice in the morning. The sky really is beautiful. I wish people would notice it a little more. Maybe I just notice it more than one is supposed to.

So I walk until around six and come home. Sarah is still asleep when I open the door to her room. We meet in high school, Sarah and I. She was always so darn pretty. I still think it. It is probably why Zach likes her so much. I cannot remember how I met Sarah exactly though. Maybe it was a gym class. I really try to forget high school. So I just consider us friends and move on with it. She really is a nice person. She deals with me at least.

I am not very good at making coffee. There was one point in my life where I was going to own a coffee shop and be completely liberal and speak my mind on every political issue out there. Turns out I do not really have much of an opinion and I suck at making coffee. That one failed quite quickly.

Today’s coffee is way too sweet. I practically dumped a pound of sugar in there. It is the only way I will drink it. But it still makes my mouth cringe a little. We have this cute little window next to our cute little table. Excuse me; Sarah has this cute little window next to her cute little table. I like to sit there in the mornings and drink my way too sugary coffee. The sun rises and hits the buildings. Some say Boston is not a city compared to others. I like to think it is, in its own little way.

I wait until noon to call my mother again. This time I am approached with a lot more respect. “Hey Clara, what do you need darling?”

“I…well…I was thinking about coming home.”

“Coming home? Wait now? Or in a month? I really have to know hunny this takes planning.”

I really do not understand how having your daughter over takes this much planning. My room is still made. The only thing that’s changed is all the fish have died. But I do not question and say, “I don’t really know. As soon as possible I guess.”

“Can you come next Monday, no Tuesday? Next Tuesday the 15th? I am free that whole day and can take you in.”

“Fine mom.”

“Okay.” Click. Thanks mom. I love you too.


I tell Sarah that on Tuesday January 15th I am moving back home. She gives me a hug and says it is for the best. It really does not make much of a difference though; I have never been quite so sure if she actually believes what she says. Maybe that is why she writes other people’s stories.

She tells me she is going to visit Zach. I say that’s cool and she leaves. Sometimes even television doesn’t cure this thing I get. Today nothing is on. On Demand is useless and my DVR broke months ago. No, sorry, Sarah’s DVR broke months ago. I really do not understand how that can break without the whole television breaking, but whatever. I never have wanted to work with electronics. Maybe I will get to that profession though.

I try to pack up my things. They are everywhere. It might take until next Tuesday the 15th to pack everything up.


I decide to call my sister about coming home. It really has no point. She lives in California, all the way across the country from our small home in Connecticut. So the fact that I am coming home really will not change her life at all. But I just feel like it. I tend to think I am closer with my family than I actually am.

“Hey Jane, how is Cali?”

“It’s fine. Working a ton. Why the call? You sound odd. Are you okay? Your not…”

“No, I’m fine. I just wanted to tell you that I am moving back in with Mom and Dad.”

“Why?”

“Boston just isn’t working.”

“Clara, are you sure. You can’t just drop…”

“Honestly. I am fine. I just wanted to tell you. I don’t know why anymore. Bye”

I bet she is standing in her kitchen right now shaking her head, thinking that I am about to do something bad. That I am about to make a drastic change in my life. That I am about to jump off a mountain or wrestle a Tasmanian Devil. Calling her was a mistake; I knew that from the start.


Sunday the 13th comes along quicker than I thought it would. My lack of notebook planning for this event lead to a complete misuse of time. I do not have a train ticket or a bus pass and my mother is going to expect me there right on the 15th. I really cannot mess this one up.


Monday the 14th arrives as well and I still do not have any sort of transportation method.


It is Tuesday the 15th and I am still in bed. This is the one morning where I really do not feel like getting up. However Sarah barges in and says, “Get up now Clara! I got you a train ticket. Leaves in like half an hour. Come on I’ll walk with you there.”

She is really nice. I get up and brush my teeth and collect my bags. When I walk into the kitchen I see Zach there. He turns around and says, “Hey, sad to see ya leave.”

He is not sad. I really don’t see how he can be. Throughout my months here I have said all of maybe three sentences to him. They keep to themselves. Sarah whispers something in his ear. Next thing I know I’m at the train.