Nancy

Suzy stares at the blank paper, her pen poised to write, and yet
nothing comes. Just like her hands when they curl into fists of anger,
poised to hit the punch bag, and yet nothing comes.

There's so much inside of her pushing and yelling to get out, it's just
as bad as nothing.
And this nothing, this blank paper staring back at her, is a bad
nothing, the kind that hurts if you don't let it out.

Suzy has writer's block.
Something she only gets when she's unhappy. But she insists that she is
happy: she has a social life, a boyfriend, great clothes and a healthy
heart. She's in denial.

She holds her pen like an injection about to be thrust down her veins,
and she wishes it contained some kind of magic to light the spark in
her again. Someone pressed pause in her, and whoever it may be is
running through her blood, making her tired, making her numb.

She gives up, puts down the pen, just like when she gives up and
uncurls her fists, once again admitting defeat.
If she only knew what she was fighting, it would be so much easier to
conquer.

She makes herself some coffee, adds too much milk, and suddenly she's
thinking of a girl called Nancy.

Nancy is a writer, a very talented one; she shocks you with the
intimacy of her writing, makes you feel like shouting "No! Don't tell
me this! It's too personal!"

Nancy has a scar on her forehead. She could hide it if she wanted to,
but she doesn't.

She has small hands and fragile shoulders.

Her eyes are a pool of fire, so warm, so powerful, they seem out of
place in her matchbox body.

But most of all, her scar.
Nancy carries her scar like a story, and Suzy wants to read.

One cold spring night, the two writers meet. A small yacht sails down
the Nile, loud voices ring into the two AM air, laughter echoing into
the water.

Suzy sits on her own in the tiny bathroom. Behind locked doors, she's
shivering in her tight jeans and heavy makeup. She should be happy like
the others, the boy is here, that's all that should matter, instead she
feels nothing.
It's a bad nothing.

She walks out onto the deck, tries to laugh at a joke her boy is
telling, refuses a half-drunk bottle of beer, then she sees her.

Amidst all the noise and bodies, Nancy lies in the eye of the circle,
curled up like a cat in the arms of a boy, her fire eyes peek out at
Suzy from her cocoon.
She seems so content, so alive, Suzy's skin crawls with jealousy,
wishing she could be Nancy, just for one moment, so she could discover
what her secret is.

From that moment on, the girl invades her thoughts. She doesn't
understand why; they barely speak, so little in common, and yet Nancy
is on her forehead.

One day, she comes across Nancy's work; reads about silence and
caramel, rooftops and vertebrae, time and grieving. Little intricate
moments that you thought you had forgotten suddenly come swimming into
your head, and you think 'Yes. I was there.'

Suzy's clumsy feet and big smile let the distance grow between her and
the world.

She has mastered the craft of making "Everything's fine!" sound like
she means it, to the point that she's started to believe it
herself.

Her boyfriend, he likes to boast that he will influence her to write
the best poetry ever, all about him.
She finds his arrogance unappealing and swallows a smile. She doesn't
tell him that she's had writers' block ever since she met him , three
months ago.

Maybe he's the problem.

But Suzy doesn't dwell on the thought too long, instead she swallows
it, just like her smile.

The few miserable pieces she does manage to write always seem to be
about life without him.
When her friends read these pieces, they look at her with concern. She
sees the look, blinks at them and insists "It's fiction!"
She's in denial.

Her head is a room full of shadows, and the only way to find the torch
light is to pick up a pen and write.
She wants to be Nancy, every part of her. But she can't.

There is no secret, Suzy, that's the whole point.

When you write, you have to come naked. About everything inside you
that you never let breathe.
From the apple in the fridge to the Panadol in the bathroom. From the
smoke on the rooftop, to your best friend's boy.

You need to come naked.

She's covered herself with so many layers, it's hard to find herself
underneath. She needs a savior, but Nancy won't come marching in.
Suzy needs to rescue her own self, needs to de-pause her life.

Months later, when she's become the defunct part of a 'We', full of
post-break up pain and paranoia, she stares at a blank paper.

Pen poised in the air, she thinks of her ex, his ugly heart, the scar
on her elbow, and suddenly something comes; so strong, she can't stop
writing.

She hasn't stopped since.
Only this time, she has come naked.

Suzy writes, scratches, heals and starts all over again. We watch her
stumble, we cringe when she falls, and help her on her feet
again.

She picks up her pen one more time, bruised and smiling, thinks of
Nancy, and writes.
And soon, we hope and pray that some day, she too will learn to wear
her scar like a story.