It is the pencil that puts words on a page. However, a small part of the pencil, the eraser, hides those words from intrigued eyes. In my quest to write, I have succeeded in devising a story--two now, actually--that I am proud of. I have all the words in my head. Though some of those words have safely reached the page, others have been stopped by my own personal eraser. This is not the pink menace that threatens to rid the world of all printed language. No, my enemy is much worse; laziness. The very act of not acting delays my motivation and my accomplishment. I fear that, as time passes, I will no longer be able to finish my work, whether I lose interest or forget where I wanted the story to be taken. It is an inner battle of wits between me and my eraser, to see who will perish first: me, the eraser, shaven completely and scattered across New England, or me, the pencil, too short to hold and create the words that I desperately wish to reveal to the public. My determination is strong, but my longing for academic success and social interaction distorts my drive for completion.
The victor is yet to be seen.
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