I will be a writer one day!

It was a dark and stormy night, and Mark had been sitting at his desk for hours. His bedroom was his comfort zone, a space which mirrored his subconscious: decorated with Japanese manga, American comics, and books of every kind, alongside gadgets, collectible cards, fantasy objects, and musical instruments. More than a bedroom, it resembled a small studio, with a wide desk and a television connected to a PlayStation. From how it was arranged, one might have guessed that the boy who lived there was very creative, or perhaps very lonely.

Mark did not come from a wealthy family, nor from one struggling financially, but from the typical working middle class that keeps countries running. The house was not large, and for that reason his parents had given him the biggest room.

That evening he had already smoked half a pack of cigarettes while looking for inspiration for his new book. For two hours he had been thinking and staring blankly at the laptop’s screen, squeezing his brain like a lemon, but one lemon alone is not enough to make good lemonade. His writer’s block, similarly to the Great Wall of China, could well be seen from space, but the young man persevered in his goal: to create a successful story for his new and first book.

It was time to resort to drastic measures: drinking some wine, the good one from the grocery store, usually meant for cooking meat and fish. One of those wines that, at the convenient price of two dollars, leaves you with a terrible headache and sticky lips. As he drank straight from the carton, he felt an ancient energy flowing through his veins. The power of generations of great writers seemed to permeate the room, which reeked of alcohol and cigarettes. Something akin to divine inspiration was drawing ever closer and becoming almost tangible. Perhaps it was a ham and cheese sandwich he had spared earlier. In any case, after a couple of bites, Mark screamed, “Eureka.”

He finally had an idea and began typing like a tornado, while reciting out loud what he was writing: “Once upon a time there was a Hobbit…”

“Shit! This is already taken. Maybe I should start with the classic ‘it was a dark and stormy night’… But what time is it?” he said to himself out loud.

“Two A.M.? Whatever, fuck it, I’ll think about it better tomorrow. This headache is too strong.” Mark closed the laptop without even saving the empty file and smoked one last cigarette. Then, after brushing his teeth, he went to bed.

He got up around ten in the morning and prepared himself a ‘Hobbit’s breakfast,’ as he called it, with yogurt, blueberries, a kiwi, scrambled eggs, a few biscuits and powdered coffee. He went to the bathroom to take a shower and other things better left unmentioned, then left the house.

Mark was twenty-two years old and, since he had left university after his first year of ancient literature, he had been working as a waiter, which, without taking anything away from this fundamental and historic profession, had little to do with writing. He arrived at the restaurant at twelve o’clock, perfectly on time for his shift.

The place was decorated and furnished in a distinctly fantasy style; for this reason, Mark worked there. It had about twenty solid wood tables, metal knick-knacks, and paintings of natural landscapes hanging on the walls. It looked like a tavern, with wooden wall coverings, chairs that appeared ancient, to him, and a floor made of red marble tiles. Metal chandeliers with a Victorian-like appearance hung from the ceiling.

He entered through the back door as usual and, while putting on his uniform, felt a big and strong hand on his shoulder. The restaurant owner interrupted him mid-change: “Mark, what are you doing here? You quit the job yesterday. Have you already abandoned your writing career?”

The boss was a burly yet kind man, with a humor that was decidedly annoying. He had a booming voice, which he used to give orders in the dining room without the slightest effort. He always wore a chef’s hat on his bald head, clashing noticeably with his thick black beard and mustache. To Mark, that man had always seemed like one of the ‘Dwarves of Erebor,’ specifically Dwalin.

“Absolutely not. I had simply forgotten about my resignation, given how much I worked yesterday on my book,” replied the young man in a proud tone.

Dear reader, you must know that the day before, after a couple of glasses of wine stolen from Jerome, the head waiter, Mark had quit the job. He told the restaurant’s owner that he would become a great writer and come back to eat there after his enormous success.

But it is not easy to abandon a routine so suddenly; for a year and two months he had shown up six days out of seven, always at the same time, to serve and clean both at lunch and dinner. Mark had always put in effort his own way and, even though he hated that job, he had been immediately liked by the entire staff. But his dream was to become a great writer like George R.R. Martin.

“Don’t worry. I wish you good luck, and if you change your mind, there will always be a place for you here. Yesterday’s wine is on me,” replied the owner in his deep voice.

“I would come back to work here only if George R.R. Martin asked me to collaborate; in that case, I would have failed as a writer!” Mark retorted mockingly.

Okay, maybe not like Martin. After all, Mark loved Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings. And this alone is enough to consider oneself on the right path toward writing a demanding fantasy narrative. Of course, not as demanding as surviving dragons, or HBO’s cinematic times.

He took off the uniform, greeted his former colleagues and, repeating the same theatrical scene as the previous day, exited through the main door like a winner, or an ordinary customer, depending on the point of view. Mark could finally go back to working on his book. Ah, if only that day, while returning home, instead of casually listening to fantasy music as usual, he had reflected on the decisions he made over the last year…

Dropping out of university and then quitting his job to devote himself to his dream, while living still with his parents, without money and without a tangible plan: it was truly the best way to ruin his life.

Once back home, without bothering to take off his shoes, he sat down immediately in front of the laptop’s screen.

“It’s just you and me now!” he shouted full of pride, as if he were truly facing a fire-breathing dragon (and those, at least, work quite well in Game of Thrones).

This time Mark was more motivated, and he deliberately chose to avoid drunkenness and tobacco until he had written at least the first page. He also adopted a different strategy: instead of writing in a stream of consciousness, he began by reflecting on which story he truly wanted to tell. He loved surreal yet believable stories, with fantastical elements and a practical moral. He hated biographical tales, unless they contained something unique and unusual, often touching on macabre and intense themes. He loved the Italian Scapigliatura, that group of ‘cursed poets’ who knew how to deal with difficult topics, exposing the weaknesses of the human spirit.

“I’ve decided. I will talk about an old samurai who did not have the strength to practice harakiri. And I will put some magic too in it,” he said out loud.

It was an intriguing theme, given that Japanese samurai used to commit suicide after a personal failure. Was someone who lacked the strength to end his own life to be considered a double failure or a courageous rebel? And if, after, he were to save the lives of many people, would he then be considered a hero or not?

It was a great story, at least in his mind, and Mark could’ve certainly enriched it with incredible details. A shiver ran down his spine as he began typing furiously, without stopping. He imagined himself in Japan; he saw himself in samurai clothing: he had failed his studies and left his job, yet he had found the courage to learn the ‘Way of the Katana’ and continue walking his life without listening to anyone.

Within two hours he had already written three pages, one better than the other, when a sudden voice brought him back to reality: “Mark, shouldn’t you be at work?”

It was his mother, and she didn’t know the latest news.

“Mom, I quit. I want to focus on my dream, at least for a few months,” Mark replied in an insecure tone.

“And what will you do if things go badly? Why don’t you resume university as a plan B?” the woman asked with a surprised and reproachful tone, casting doubts on his abilities.

Parents want the best for their children, but they often fail to understand the satisfaction a young man can feel in working toward his dream, even when it is as difficult as defeating not one, but a thousand dragons.

“Because I don’t need a stupid degree to become a successful writer. I just need time!” Mark shouted.

“Do as you like, but then don’t complain if you never accomplish anything. You could write while you work or study, but go on, do things your own way as usual,” said his mother as she left, leaving the door open.

Mark violently pushed the door, causing no noise because it had a shock absorber, and went back to his writing. Another two hours passed, but in a completely unproductive way; he could no longer concentrate. He ate some bread with ham and cheese, his favorite food, while replying on his phone to the messages he had ignored all day.

After eating his snack, he left the house quite satisfied with what he had produced in the afternoon.

He went to the house of a friend who had returned from Europe. All his friends were there, drinking carefree before going to the nightclub. Some of them worked, others still studied, but everyone seemed to have a normal life and a secure future. Mark, however, after a couple of beers, did not feel like going out for the night. All his friends tried to convince him, but the desire to follow his inner purpose without distractions was stronger.

“Come on Mark, lately you’re never around!” told him his best friend.

“I can’t bro. I quit my job today and it’s better to save some money. You know, I might need to pay a proofreader for the book I’m writing,” he replied.

“Well, in that case don’t worry. You’re doing the right thing, and make sure you write the best book ever. Kick those writers’ asses!” The other boy encouraged him, tipsy.

When his friends left, Mark took his way back home, lonely but comforted to have someone who supported and understood him—like the ‘Fellowship of the Ring’ for Frodo. The desire to satisfy the expectations of those who believed in him and the wish to prove his worth to the world motivated him more than ever. But it was a double-edged sword: now it was even more difficult to abandon the chosen path, which generated a lot of stress. And it is known that stress is never a good companion: it’s like having Gollum following us. It makes us more vigilant but distracted at the same time.

Mark was talking loudly to himself while walking in the street: “What am I worried about? I’m young and I have a whole life ahead. Even if I was a decrepit old man, nobody can control my life. I am free to do what I want, just like Bilbo Baggins. He travelled, wrote his book, and made history!”.

In that moment a flash of genius caught him off guard.

Wait, it was not a flash of genius, something had quite literally fallen from the sky in front of him. It was a strange and deformed object covered with transparent mucus. It looked alien… Mark picked it up, and in his hand there was a solid but mushy substance, as if it were a-

“Stop thief! Give immediately back what you stole to Mr. Spinkle.” A woman in her sixties, holding a horrible dog on a pink leash, ran towards him and snatched the drooling dog toy from his hand with a surprisingly quick move for her age.

“I’m sorry. Goodbye,” replied Mark in a visibly annoyed yet reverent tone, while the dog kept chewing the dribbling toy.

Before this extravagant interaction, he was thinking that he should have left for an adventure like the protagonist of The Hobbit: “I need to travel far from here… I will be a writer one day!”.

Once home, he went straight to sleep after setting voluntarily the alarm for 7 A.M.—probably for the first time in his life.