My phone was ringing…

I picked up.

“Yes?”

“This is Destiny.”

“Destiny? Did I date you three weeks ago?”

“No. You are going to be a writer.”

“What? Why not a baseball player? Why not, all the things I wanted to be before this…?”

“That was foreplay. Now, I’m going to give you my body of work.”

“Wow! Are you coming over, like a call girl?”

“No. More like a stalker. I’ll show-up when you least expect it.”

I rode the bus to school, and this kid with a Metallica T-shirt, and a pimply face told me to move.

I didn’t.

He was trying to be a writer.

“I like Poe,” he told my hot English teacher.

She tried to help him, but only managed to give him the other kind of inspiration.

Our history teacher worked at Microsoft and gave him a laptop computer.

Teachers wanted to help him,

and when they did, his writing stopped.

I never asked for help.

Then, there was the English teacher I had in college.

He was bitter.

He was trying to be a professor, and not a writer.

Most teachers think they’re writers—and then, they begin teaching more, and writing less.

Destiny doesn’t flirt with just anybody, because they’ll take her for granted.

She waits for somebody interested in her. Somebody, who won’t reject her.

Somebody, willing to lose again and again,

who will never be a loser.