“When school was out, Owen couldn’t wait to write in a journal. He ran home and got all the money he had from his piggy bank, ran to Staplers, bought an orange journal with a squiggly line pattern for $7.86, and then ran back home and started to write.”
“Ow!” Owen’s father screeched. He had just banged his head on the ceiling.
Owen was cleaning out the attic with his father when he found a dusty, old box with books in it, which matched the rest of the attic: dusty, creepy, and cobwebby.
“What’s this, Dad?” Owen shouted with satisfaction from across the attic. In his hand, he held hundreds of books with his ancestors’ names, initials, and photos from the present. Some were black and white photos of people, young and old, who looked like him and his father, only they were wearing things that people don’t wear anymore, like top hats!
Owen’s dad walked over from what was, in Owen’s opinion, the “creepy” side of the attic to have a peek. “What’s wha — … Wooo!!!”
“Ow! I found your skateboard!” Owen’s father told him, looking really dizzy. “Now, what do you need?” Owen’s father wobbled over carefully. “Oh, that. Those are all the books that your ancestors wrote.”
Owen looked at the books again, then thought to himself, My ancestors wrote these? How was I unaware of this?
Puzzled, he asked his dad, “So, you’re not the only author in the family?!”
“Oh no, I’m just one of them,” his father replied.
If I hadn’t felt bad enough that I couldn’t write as well as my father, now I’d be the only one in my whole family who couldn’t write a book! Owen thought to himself.
So that’s when it all started. It had been a few months since that day, and Owen still hadn’t done any better, if not, he’d done worse. Ever since then, he feared failing his family because he couldn’t write a story like them.
This morning, Owen was eating breakfast when he decided to ask his mom for a good idea for a story.
“Hello, Owen! Did you have a good night’s sleep?” Owen’s mom asked.
“Yeah, it was fine,” Owen groaned.
“I had the best dream last night where I had all the food in the world and — what do you want for breakfast today? Do you want cereal, or some waffles? Oh, I know, how about pancakes? Here, let me start cooking … ”
Owen’s mom rambled on and on about food, until Owen finally asked her, “Do you have any good ideas for a book, Mom?”
“How about a cookbook?!” Owen’s mom immediately replied.
Owen immediately regretted his decision because his mom loved food and cooking so much — heck, she was even flipping 12 pancakes for the family as she spoke! On that note, Owen stood up, grabbed his skateboard, ran for the door, picked up his backpack, and skated off to school, leaving his mom behind with all the food.
“What about your pancakes with extra butter and whipped cream with a cherry on top and a side of waffles with a side of bacon, eggs, and toast with a side of — oh, never mind.”
“Today in writing class, we are are going to learn about how to make realistic fiction stories,” Owen’s teacher told the class as she wrote on the chalkboard. “If you don’t have any ideas, then, a good thing to do is to write down everything you’ve done that day, like a journal!”
And there it was! Exactly what Owen had needed, some actually good advice.
A journal, of course! Owen thought to himself.
When school was out, Owen couldn’t wait to write in a journal. He ran home and got all the money he had from his piggy bank, ran to Staplers, bought an orange journal with a squiggly line pattern for $7.86, and then ran back home and started to write.
Today, I went to school and learned to write in the journal and I– Owen recited.
Owen suddenly had no idea why he had been so excited. Now that he was doing it, he felt a flash of complete boredom in his mind.
Owen kept on recording stuff over the next few months (boring or not) such as brushing teeth, getting in bed, pulling up the covers, putting his head on the pillow, and writing in this dumb journal.
As weeks passed, things were rough and boring: Dad got tons of fan mail (which, to Owen, felt like it was being shoved down his throat that he couldn’t write). Mom kept talking about food, food, food, while Owen wrote in his journal more and more.
Everything was always the same, and nothing was ever different. That was it.
Until one day, when Owen finally had an idea.
“Beat’cha!” Owen shouted. He was playing at his friend Lukas’ house.
“This game blows!” He threw his controller past the flatscreen.
“I might return it back to Games Galore!” Lukas shouted, his face turning the color of Owen’s red shirt.
“You’re the one who bought it and lost the mega power up,” Owen chuckled.
Owen yelled. Lukas’ little brother Benny had just waddled into the living room and ripped out all the pages in Owen’s orange journal.
“Oh God! No, no, nooo!!!” Owen shouted over the pages.
Benny froze and ran away.
Owen tried to put the pages back together, but they wouldn’t go back, and to add to that, he couldn’t find the right order they were supposed to be in.
Suddenly, he looked at all the pages laid out in front of him and thought, This could be my story, the story about trying to find the right story to write!
“Of course!” he yelled. He ran back to his house and got to work.
Owen’s book was about a ten-year-old boy named Nick, who, like Owen, searched for the right story and finally found it!
Now, 30 years later, Owen is the most famous author in his family, and he has twins. His story was a hit, a blockbuster book!
“Daddy,” Owen’s son and daughter asked him one day, “do you have any good ideas for a story?”