Story in the Second Person

Driving home the other night I decided to write a short story in the second person. It turned out much shorter than planned, yet it still captures the concept of the story I was trying to write. Creative writing takes time, and now that I have time, I just need to do it! 

You are, at this moment, beginning to write the story that you meant to write months ago. Rather, it is the story that you've been writing in your head every minute of every day for months, or even years. You are sitting in that charming cafe, at which works the cute barista, and are seated in a large chair that looks more comfortable than it actually is. Your laptop is open, you have a medium dirty chai on the table, and you are ready to write. You begin

writing a story that you've been meaning to write for months. Alas, the words of the story are unclear, mostly because you have neglected to plan sufficiently for the story at hand. You wonder if the story was meant to be a short story, or a novel. Maybe it was meant to be a poem, or just an article. You realize that if it is too short, it would probably be worth only a blog post. A short blog post on a blog that you have been writing on fairly religiously for nearly three years, yet only a select few people take the time to read. Yet, even if the story was meant to be only a short story, the story is what you have been writing

for months. When you begin to write the story, you imagine yourself as the main character. Conflict emerges before your character-version of yourself even appears on the page. You are forced to ask the question, is this character me? Or is it the ideal version of me? Or is it the version of me who I hope not to become? I have always been told to write what I know, but is it best to write what I know I am or what I know I do or do not want to be? If I write an auto-biography, it is what I know, but who will want to read about me, and my dull life? The auto-biography will be about what I imagine people think of me, rather than actually about me. At this moment, you realize that your autobiography would consist of the story of you sitting in the charming cafe with the cute barista.

The ideal version of you would stand, approach the barista, and say something witty and attractive. You would flash a smile and his heart would melt. As you order your dirty chai, he would smile in spite of himself, and make some witty crack about how none of the cute girls normally order such an intense drink, most of them don't know what it is. When he asks what milk you prefer, he admires that you don't answer skim, rather, two percent. Taste is everything. The story about the ideal you writes itself. It is the story of you doing everything that you are too afraid to do, in a fantasy world that is remarkably similar to a host of your favorite films. The ideal you would saunter back to your comfy chair in the charming cafe, as the cute barista looks on, and you would sit down to write the most brilliant short story ever, inspired by the barista's admiration, and the zest of the dirty chai.

Yet that story is not written of what you know, but rather what you wish were true. Sitting in the less-than-comfortable chair, you watch as the cute barista fails to smile at any of the customers; which you imagine is because he is working at a cafe for just over minimum wage. You turn back to your laptop and your dirty chai with skim milk, and begin to write another short story, that ultimately becomes just another blog post.