Writing About Writing

This should be easier than it is. Josh stares at his computer screen, watching the mouse blink, waiting for him to type. The Word document is blank in front of him. Waiting. His mind is even blanker than the empty document. He sighs and pushes away from the computer, stalks over to the window. Looking down the eleven stories and watch the little dots of people hurry through the harsh winds, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks and beanies pulled down over their foreheads. From the window, they look like ants, scurrying to and from their homes and offices and the grocery store. He shivers and pulls the gray drapes over the gloomy wintry sky, shutting out the world and going back to his computer. Josh is 6 foot 2 16 year old. He’s currently on winter break with an essay that will hopefully help him pass. Still, there is nothing to write about. The cursor blinks, taunting his empty mind. He mutters to himself about the pros and cons of going out into the brutally cold town that is Los Angeles, in search of topic to write about, and then grab his jacket and and the thin worn out pieces of cloth that were once gloves. Locking the front door behind, he leaves the word document up, hopeful that maybe when he return, his book will have written itself. He stands in the elevator, watching the numbers slowly flickering down to the beat of the soft music in the background, until it reaches the first floor and the doors slide open with a soft whirring, revealing the familiar lobby, decorated with all the cheerful things that remind you it that time of year. The time when little kids write letters to an imaginary fat old man for all the things they would like. That time when families get together and celebrated the year and welcome the next.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” the doorman says, tipping his hat at me. “Are you and your family ready for Christmas this year?” Anthony has been the doorman for as long as I've lived on the eleventh floor, since I was a little kid and is...