Who I am should be like him, right?

I stare at my laptop screen trying to come up with ideas, racking my brain up with different scenarios. Each contain different characters and settings, with the plot diverging from fantasy or a realistic view. I try plan out each idea and expand it, but my mind keeps coming to the conclusion that 'Its useless' or 'Its not good enough'. I try to ignore those voices, but it was futile. With a large tired sigh, I close my laptop without even shutting it down grabbed my apartment keys and went out.

Where no place in mind, I start to walk. I start to think about times where I didn't need to worry about bills and food, just dreaming about being a famous author with my mother's encouraging words "Follow your dreams" "Never give up" "I love you, always remember that". Ever since her death the world didn't look the same.

I think of my favorite author as a child, I admired him from the start from opening one of his works. I was amazed of how creative he was and how passionate he was about his writing. He always released works on how a normal average person can become someone greater, to have a greater purpose and future ahead. His works were so famous, everyone nicknamed him "The King". He eventually got held up by all the attention and disappeared, no one ever did know whatever happened to him.

I realize that I have started to walking toward my childhood house toward the abandoned part of town. I recognize this street, I used this route to come home everyday after school. I suppose muscle memory has taken me a path through memory lane. I look around as I walk, the houses are all abandoned with various gaffiti filled on their walls. There was an occasional homeless person or suspicious person, but they all ignored me. They all have problems of their own.

As i finally arrive at my old home, It was in the same state of disarray as the other homes that litter here. I walk toward the door, already being hit with a barrage of memories. I take a step inside and looked around, The wallpapers were tattered and vandalized, the floors are filled with garbage and stains, and there are various furniture that looks like it has been trampled on.

I eventually went to the door to my old room. Standing on front of it, I grab the door knob and turned. As I push open the door, i expected it to be in the same state as the house. I wasn't wrong, except it looked different from the other areas of the house. Sure it looks old and worn, but it gave off a distinct feel of recently used. It was like someone is currently inhabiting this room.

The room also had books and papers scattered around every surface. I look at my old bookshelves, It was missing a large chunk of its occupants explaining the mystery of the books. I studied the room and came to the conclusion that everything was the way he left it, just thrown about or in a different location. I looked toward an old table I have in front of the window and saw something that was certainly wasn't there before, an old rusty typewriter. I tested it out and it seems to function though poorly.

I look up from the typewriter and out the window, the windows shows a nice view of the sky. I close my eyes reminiscing the times as a child where I would just look at the sky and daydream of someday being the greatest writer the world, Maybe I am not just destined to be a great author. I just stand there with my eyes closed until heavy thuds echoed outside the door, my eyes snapped open and looked around in a panicked gaze.

Looking for a place to hide, my eyes finally focus on my bend specifically under it. The door opens at the same time as I finally started to move, I froze. At the doorway stood a man who has seen better days. We stare at each other for some time, I try to say something but the stranger beat me to it.

"Who the hell are you?" the stranger asks, his voice sounding tense and gruff like he had been smoking or haven't spoke in a long time.

I think of an appropriate response "I'm -", I started to say but he cuts me off.

"Never mind, I don't care. But what are you doing here?" He stares at me waiting for a response.

"This is my house-rather my old one, I was just visiting it to look on how its doing." I said

He continues to stare before walking towards me "Its in the same state as any other abandoned house would be." I tense when he finally gets close, but instead of stopping in front of me, he walked past me to the typewriter. He pulls a chair from the corner of the room takes paper from the ground and proceeds to type out sentences in a rapid and precise motion.

The sounds of snapping from the typewriter fills the room, he continues to type out sentences before stopping and glancing at me."Well, what are you still doing here?" He continues to type again.

I realize I have just been standing there staring. When his I finally processed his question, I think to myself 'What am I still doing here indeed'.

"I don't really have anything else to do." I replied thinking about the blank whiteness of my laptop back at my apartment.

"Are you an author?" His questioned surprised me.

"Yeah, how did you know?" I ask suspicious.

"This is your old room right?" He continues to talk after seeing my nod."This room is full of books, the owner of them must really like reading"

"Okay that makes sense." I say before furrowing my eyebrows "But, what are you doing here?"

"Typing." He replies, he seemed like he didn't want to elaborate on that so I left it be.

A silence fills the room again, only the sounds of the typewriter can be heard. After some time the man replaces the paper with a new one.

"So you're a fan of The King?" He asks me. Seeing my questioning eyes "You have almost all of his works" he says further answering my question.

I start to think of the feeling i got when reading through The Kings works "Its just that-" I cut myself off "Its like he actually cares about his work and passionate about it. He does it not for the fame but for the purpose of sharing what his mind has to offer" I think of all of his works and a wave of sadness comes over me, 'Will I ever reach his level?' I started to think.

"What about you?- Why are you an author?" He asks me looking at my eyes.

The sudden eye contact surprised me. As I open my mouth to reply, my throat constricts 'For fame?' 'For the money?' 'To be like The King?'.

He seemed to see something in eyes and went back to typing. His question made me think, Why do I want to be an author? The question seems to ring in my ears, what are my reasons to become an author?

The sudden halt of the snapping from the typewriter drives me out of my thoughts. The man takes all of what he typed, inspected them before starting to leave. Finally reaching the doorway he stops and looks back at me.

"Listen, you seem to be currently stuck on yourself. I know what its like to lose yourself on the way. The King is a great author but you should stop trying to be like him and compare yourself to him, If you truly are a fan of The King, then you should be doing what he has been doing, just show the world what your own mind has to offer. Make what you would write, not what The King would write."

With one last look the man leaves. I don't know how long I stood there, staring where at the space where the man used to be. When his words finally sank into me, I ran after him. When I reached outside, I saw no trace of the stranger. After searching for a few minutes I finally gave and started to go back to my apartment. On the way, my mind suddenly exploded with ideas of I would like to share with the world.

When I finally arrive, I went straight to my laptop and opened it. I see the blank white space and stare 'Its time to finally fill this space up'.I took a deep breath and started to type.