Timothy was a troublemaker, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love me.

The thought ran through my mind, while my pen scratched words and lines into my newest notebook. Cool air from my room’s fan washed over my weary shoulders. My hands ached, but I kept writing. Then my foot seized up.

“Aw, dang it,” I mumbled, trying to shake out the pins and needles. The entire time I did, I examined the crack in my desk’s glass. I did not remember where it came from. I assumed I dropped something on it? Perhaps I should drop something on my foot, to stop it from disrupting my workshop?

My fingers left my notebook and hovered over the keys of my computer. The darn thing crashed, which led to me having to return, temporarily, to hand-written books.

“Vika, what’s going on?” T-Meister appeared in my doorway, dressed in his taco-themed boxer shorts and a pair of gray socks. He had my older brother, Matthew’s, hairy chest, but he shared my dirty blonde hair.

“My foot fell asleep,” I explained. The pins and needles subsided, right when my computer booted back up. It must have felt bad for me.

T-Meister plopped down on the purple, polka dot sheets of my bed in my hot room. I did not like to have the window open, because we lived next to a hospital. Ever since the 10th grade incident, ambulance sirens scared me.

“Is your foot asleep now?” Timothy asked, his mouth twitching into that familiar, sweet smile he gave me whenever he wanted to borrow one of my GameBoy games.

“No, it’s gone,” I replied, grinning back. “Thanks, dude.”

Timothy rested his hands in his lap. “So, whatcha doing? Writing again?”

“You know me,” I said, showing him my word-filled notebook. I still refused to write in paragraphs. I doubted Timothy could read my horrendous handwriting. I thought mine was bad, but his was a lot worse.

“You know,” T-Meister said, examining my notebook, “there are lots of writing websites on the Internet.”

“Wait, there are?” My notebook dropped from my hand. I was sure it made the crack in the desk even bigger.

“Yeah,” T said, shrugging. “I think they can get you published one day.” He rose from my bed and approached my side. His powerful hand gripped the smooth, wooden head of my chair, and his light green eyes met my own.

I felt the love of sister and brother coursing through my veins, instead of blood. If only I could spend as much time with Matthew as I did Tee, but poor Matt was eight years older than us.

I took a deep breath. “Timothy, I don’t think I want to get published.”

“Oh, come on, dude!” he said, punching my shoulder, like he did when we used to play Punch Buggy, No Punch Backs. “At least try. For me? You may be surprised.”

“Yeah right,” I said, sarcastically chuckling. I closed my computer. “I doubt people will enjoy my work.” My arms crossed over my chest.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Right?”

Gosh, why did brothers have to be so wise? Why did I let myself fall victim to my self-doubt?

***

Timothy’s words haunted me in my sleep that night. My anxiety levels accelerated, to the point I woke in a cold sweat. I dragged my computer to me and went to Google. Writing websites were the words I typed into the search box. My eyes widened at what I saw: Wattpad, Quotev, Inkitt, Fanfiction.net, etc. Wattpad? That sounded interesting. I clicked the link.

Oh, gosh! I thought, when I saw all the published books: Given, After, and more. Nope. This is not my cup of tea. It looked like the best writers went to that website. I was just an amateur. I only wrote for fun. At the same time, though, I wondered what it would be like if more people read my books, especially Tracey and Daniel Matton’s stories.

I remembered when we learned about internal conflict in my English class. Our teacher showed us a clip from Aladdin—the one where Aladdin debated to tell Jasmine the truth about him being a street rat.

“‘All right, Sparky, here’s the deal,’” Genie had said, with those Elvis-like glasses covering his eyes. “‘If you wanna court the little lady, you gotta be a straight-shooter. Do ya got it?’”

Was that what I had to be? A straight-shooter? Challenge myself? Push myself? Get myself out in the world? I never knew it was possible for an internal conflict to change into me being honest with myself. I hated being honest. After all, anxiety was my past, present, and future.

Timothy, you are bad, but I admire your optimism.

I would never publish my stories elsewhere. Not in a hundred years, and not in a thousand. To be a straight-shooter was not up my alley. My writing was mine, and I intended to keep it that way.

Climbing out of bed, I tiptoed outside to my family’s back deck, where the carpenter bees buzzed during the spring, and where the roaches crawled in the summer.

The stars looked like a million suns butting heads, as they tried to determine who the alpha was. Standing up to my own alpha, my self-doubt, was my flaw.

It was time to “stretch for the sky” and grab one of those stars. I would break off its five points—each which represented one of my stories—and send them to different sections of the universe.

I wanted to share my stories with the world, but fear consumed me in an inferno. I couldn’t put out that flame, no matter how hard I tried.

I might as well just give up writing as a whole. It was nice knowing you, island of personality, but I was nothing more than an amateur, who was too scared to stand up to my own alpha.