When the Train Crashes

Ava Russell

You are not a writer; you only pretend you are. You pretend you believe 
the people who tell you you’re one-of-a-kind, but deep down you know that every 
person on this planet has a mother, brother, teacher, friend, dog—someone who 
thinks they’re one-of-a-kind in their own oh-so-special way, and that even if  all 
that uniqueness did exist, it would just cancel out. You pretend you’re a writer, 
but you struggled through this simple sentence word by word, letter by letter, 
struggled to combine your abstract, nonsensical thoughts into something that’s 
barely legible. Who are you kidding? You are not a writer. Put the pen down, 
close the document—it’s blank, anyway—and delete all those useless notes defiled 
with useless ideas that will never take you anywhere. Put the pen down and walk 
away because you are not a writer. Walk back to the TV and distract yourself  
by feeling sorry for the family whose house burned down, or pick up the phone 
and scroll-and-scroll-and-scroll and feel relieved that you aren’t the person who’s 
humiliating themself  by—God forbid—having a good time posting silly videos on 
the internet. Anything to derail the train of  thought speeding endlessly through 
the darkest tunnel, to make you forget that You. Are. Not. A. Writer. You’re noth-
ing but a liar who talks a lot of  big talk, and now you’ve dug yourself  down deep 
into a grave with all that big talk. The only way to climb out of  that grave is by 
building a ladder from the words your foggy brain can’t produce even though it 
runs-and-runs-and-runs like a hamster on a wheel, going fast but going nowhere. 
And now the train has hit the wall at the dead end of  that tunnel, and now the 
engine is on fire, and now the smoke is everywhere, everywhere, smothering any 
seedling that might have blossomed into a page, a paragraph, or even a single 
word. Think about all those people you’re letting down; think about how humili-
ated you’ll be when you’re old and gray and frail and you haven’t managed to sell 
a single copy of  a single book, haven’t managed to publish a single word; think 
about your lost legacy—your lost immortality. Think-and-think-and-think until 
the clouds roll over and the sun shines through and the flowers bloom and the 
train is chugging along and the words are coming quickly—and you are a writer. 
You are a writer who understands that there’s no such thing as one-of-a-kind, and 
that maybe that’s a good thing. After all, if  everyone was one-of-a-kind, if  you 
were one-of-a-kind, no one else in the world would be interested in what you have 
to say; and you have so many things to say, so many important things about the 
world, and other people, and even yourself. And now you have a story, and now 
there are people who find strength and community in your story—in you. And 
now you are a writer, and so much more. 

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