American Dream

“I’m here for the nosedive.”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve been saying that since the first day you landed your feet here. It is getting overused.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to look away and making sure they won’t be trapped in awkward eye contact.

“So, what is getting into you these days?”

She paused a bit before taking a seat in front of the bookstore clerk.

“I am not sure, though…”

The cash register desk of this vintage bookstore had this tiny stool near to it, exclusively reserved for this girl only. It was not there at first, she brought her own stool so she could talk to the bookstore manager more comfortably.

“I am just tired, you know? I have been making nothing but sacrifices ever since I decided that New York would be a breakthrough. My breakthrough.”

“You are being impatient.”

“No, this is not impatience. I know impatience when I see one. This is revelation, realization.”

“But, this is — “

“Don’t cut me on this one. I know you’re just trying to make me feel better. I have been doing that to myself too. But, I see no progress. I have been writing what? 200-pages-long of an unworthy story, for a year, and now they all become scrap papers. And no, you don’t have a say, you didn’t see my book in your very own hipster bookstore, it’s not here and will never be in one of your shelves. Because I will never finish it. I don’t have the capabilities to do it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I have always thought that I can make it big, make it grand. But, what? All I got is a long-overdue credit card bill.”

She put her arms on the desk, hands covering her face. She was just too embarrassed to face him right now.

“Sadly, the one thing that I fear the most has come to life.”

“What is it? Being broke, lazy, or unable to do things you love?”

“No. It’s mediocrity.”

(An imaginary conversation between Joe Goldberg, an NYC bookstore manager, and Guinevere Beck, an aspiring writer)