Fall of a Writer

I run nimble fingers against the warm screen, re-reading the address for the last time. I look at the content, the title and my name in bold Times New Roman, and the rest in a similar but smaller font. Irregular, loud heartbeats rock my body as I click 'Send'. That's it. All I have to do now is wait a week for the next issue to come out.
The biggest disappointment is when I flip through the pages of my favourite magazine, searching for my name and then not finding it anywhere. Another issue passes without my writing. It's a numbing feeling. My heart sinks. I console myself, take a deep breath, read through the rest of the paper, smile and go back to my laptop to type the fantastic idea that just blossomed in my head.
The pages of my diary now remain unattended. Dust has gathered on the cover. I no longer have the time to inhale the intoxicating smell of the black ink. Excerpts of poems and novels that were never intended to be finished lie scattered on the mosaic floor. Half-torn books lie on my bedside table in a leaning pile, the dust on the top glistening in the mellow yellow light. I don't remember the last time I touched them. I sit on my bed with my math book and a copy, working out problems that were never meant for me.
I am in my English class, scribbling away relentlessly. My brain tries to remember the points that my teacher had mentioned which should be in my writing, my heart dictates the words that grace the plot. And 40 minutes later, I am done. Relief overwhelms me as I stare at the paper. I smile at the mastery of my vocabulary, the brilliance of the plot, and wait for my favourite teacher to come and check it. As he scans through the paper, I wait eagerly to see a smile on his face, or maybe even a 'Good job. I'm so proud of you.' But that never comes. With a blank face, he goes on to check the next copy. The same sinking feeling takes me over once again.
The bazaar is always a good place for inspiration. As the fish-monger stuffs a smelly fish in my bag, I see a malnourished girl of about 5 years sitting at a corner, tears trickling down her face. Why is she crying? What is her story? Is she crying because she's hungry, or is she about to be sold off like any other product in the bazaar? My fingers itch to hold a pen and write out her story, so I rush back home. As soon as the front door opens, I see my Biology teacher sitting on the sofa, preparing a worksheet. Quietly and obediently, I sit beside her and start solving the paper.
I am typing the last word of my story. I look at the screen beaming, as it shines with pride. I look at the way my words dance and tell a story never before told. I stare, amazed. I type the same address once again and click 'Send'. 'Your email has been sent,' it assures me, as I close my eyes for a silent prayer. After a mighty long week, I find myself in the same spot in the sofa with my favourite magazine in hand. I flip through the pages, my eager eyes searching for my name. But I do not find it. It's not there. I sit in my spot, numb.

Shreyosi Endow, 16, is a private A-level student.