Today, a great writer came to my coffee shop — one who has never written a single book in his life.

  What should I treat such an impressive person to? He must like coffee with cognac. Bitter and spicy. In its aroma, it’s easy to drown even the heaviest sadness. And sweet cherries in honey — to soften the bitterness left on the tongue by unfulfilled hopes…

  "And you know all that. As always…

  You know what great ideas came to me. And this wasn’t made up, not pulled out of thin air. I had a passion for writing from a very young age. I was just learning to write, and already I was composing amazing stories.

  I remember playing on the playground with older kids from the next street. Our parents weren’t exactly friends, but I was incredibly drawn to those kids. And they had an idea that I, at barely six years old, developed and even brought to life. They were going to have a sleepover, tell scary stories and roast marshmallows. But who would allow children to make a fire in the bedroom? And I came up with a solution.

  We drew the fire ourselves. Cut out paper flames and painted them to make them blaze. Oh, how many stories I invented while I worked on it.

  Needless to say, my parents didn’t let me go to that night party…

  Things went better at school. Poems, songs, school plays. Then even essays for money. Enough for teenage trinkets and treats for friends.

  And then my mother found my diary. She called me a worthless person, said I filled my head with nonsense…

  I cried until I hiccupped, burning the diary in the backyard.

  Another straw was the teacher’s reaction. It was my final year of school. The topic was something like “What will I be when I grow up.” And I didn’t exactly have a creative crisis. More like butterflies in my head… or in my stomach. A whole swarm of teenage worries, not connected to school at all.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  But at that moment I wanted to pour out my soul. I wanted to show that I was open to the world and trusted it completely. And that I could create worlds myself.

  Oh, what a stunning essay it was. Not a single grammatical error and a continuous flight of soul and thought. All that madness of creativity boiled down to one thing: that I didn’t know what I wanted from life, but I serenely entrusted myself to it. On those pages, all my dreams lay frozen in ink. My hot, open heart.

  It’s a pity I didn’t keep the teacher’s response. She was so enraged by my essay that she wrote her review in red at the bottom of the page. I don’t remember it word for word after so many years, but… she called me an empty-headed dreamer. Almost a madman. A dangerous madman who would never be accepted by society. And she, the teacher, said she’d be the first to tell me this to my face.

  Needless to say, I got the lowest grade.

  I didn’t break. I went to study journalism. And I was one point short of a scholarship. Because I sent the committee one of my best essays at that time. Something that made my heart ache. Something real, happening right on the streets around me. Something that moved me to tears.

  But you can guess the rest. Nobody needs pure emotions, even in flawless prose. The exam committee doesn’t want your soul. All they cared about was structure and references to the classics. They wanted to see that I could be a robot and write to a template.

  I probably won’t surprise you if I say I didn’t become a journalist. I’ve worked as a technical writer and copywriter my whole life. Product descriptions for online stores, long expert articles on law, sports news reviews. Anything but my own soul.

  And all those ideas… I feel them like withered leaves crumbling at the bottom of my soul, poisoning the air I breathe. They make me angry and bitter. I smell of autumnal mustiness.

  And now, when there’s already been an attempt at family, grown children, and a whole sea of faded feelings… I sit in front of a blank page… and there’s no ink on it. I can no longer write…"

  His voice broke. He set the cup back on the saucer, clumsy and trembling, then buried his face in his hands and sobbed bitterly. His tears vanished without a trace in the coffee laced with cognac, washing away the honey-sweet taste of cherries…

  I don’t give my guests advice. I only treat them to coffee…

  Today, a great writer came to my coffee shop…