Samuel Carter was born in a town where stories were just bedtime distractions and dreams were luxuries no one could afford. It was all about the money you earn from sweat,blood and tears. In Brighton, people believed what was practical and an easy path that brought food to their table than the roads which led to struggles. Samuel had always been a writer. He had stories buried in his bones, yearning to be told and read. Since childhood, he had painted papers with words which he couldn’t say out himself. He was curious about the empty papers which craved to be bathed in ink. So he wrote. He always wrote and hid the stories underneath the bed in an old wooden box.
As a child, he filled every inch of space with words—-scraps of notebooks, the back of old receipts and his old notebooks. He wrote about waters and trees, heroes and villains, sadness and happiness.
His teachers dismissed his stories as distractions. So, he hid his voice from the rejections but he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop writing. He wrote until the candle melted, the sun rose and the rain stopped.
As seasons changed, one box had turned into two. The papers were filled with undying words and the desire to read out his stories became strong. He wanted to let people hear his voice, show them the worlds he had built and the characters he molded on the paper. His great friend, who always had ears to listen to his stories, had drifted away from him as reality struck them with a punch of wind. The wind of work and money.
Samuel also had a family. His mother and father worked hard to bring food onto the table. As he grew older, so did his parents. He wanted to publish his stories and let the world hear his words but his family, his friends and even elders advised him to be practical. Everyone just saw the old papers that filled the wooden boxes but for Samuel they were his dreams he had been chasing. In that chase, Samuel was alone yet he was failing. He could see the people who were burning his dreams but not that he was the only one who was dreaming in the whole town. He was the only one who could fill the empty paper with words which burn with emotions.
He realised the crawl towards the dream was useless. He had to run. Run with closed eyes and ears to get his tales hidden in wooden boxes to get carved in trees of wood. Once he had started telling his stories, he got mocked for his delusions.
“Stories don’t put food on the table.”
One cold autumn night, tired from the loop of rejections he sat in an old coffee shop. His manuscript lied unopened beside his untouched coffee. Tears stung his eyes, betraying to fall as the failure tore him apart.
‘Maybe it’s time to let go.’ He thought to himself, his heart breaking as a long sigh left his mouth.
Maybe everyone was right. Maybe dreams were hard to chase. Maybe it was not easy to run in this race. Maybe he was not telling the right story.
“You are a writer.”
Then he heard a voice. He lifted his head up, his eyes raging with tears which soaked the papers on the table. The old man who sat at the opposite table smiled, his silver hair shining as he raised the coffee cup to his lips. Samuel hesitated but nodded slowly.
The old man hummed, “Good. Keep writing.”
Samuel remained silent which conveyed a million things to the old man.
“Writing isn’t meant to be read by everyone. Everyone who reads is not a reader. The one who pulls onto the strings of the story he reads deserves to read.” The man took a sip of the coffee, his eyes staring deep into Samuel's soul.
“You are a writer. Write. Do not chase. Walk. You will find a story worth telling in a walk. Even one reader who appreciates your words is enough to make you a writer. So stop chasing and start walking, then you will see a companion meant for your stories.”
So he did. Samuel wrote slow and steady. He stopped chasing and worked on his father’s farm. He had written stories on the roots of fruits he ate, the quenching water he drank and the air he breath. So, he became a writer once he had started telling stories to his children and wife. So he had found a companion in his blood who saw his stories as a breath that molded him and built him. So he became the writer of the town who had his stories printed in the newspapers for the children to read. So he became the old man who told stories to the children under the trees.
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