“Write.”

“Good.”

Those were the only words Iter spoke during his lessons. Rather than walking me through the different parts of writing, he just sat and stared as I wrote. I felt watched, judged, and alone. With Itra, I used to have more fun. She even helped me understand what I was doing. Now, I found myself writing random excerpts of my ideas in front of a stranger.

“Are we…going to do anything?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.

“We’re writing,” he replied, “is there something else we should be doing?”

“Well,” I tried to respond, “You’re my tutor, right? Are you going to teach me anything?”

“Like what?” he questioned.

“Writing stuff,” I told him, “How to improve my skills, and all that.”

“You learn more when you practice,” Iter explained, “I think you have a good handle on what you’re doing already, I just think that you need a little more…devotion.”

“More devotion?” I parroted, “What do you mean? Am I being lazy?”

“It’s not laziness,” Iter corrected, “but here, take a look at these.”

Iter hefted his bag from the floor and retrieved a small stack of papers, all of them with writing. He slid them over to me and set his bag back down.

“These are the things you’ve been writing,” he explained, “read them over.”

I read them. “Once Upon a Time Stop,” “A Cold Morning,” “Why is a Genie Here!?” “The Cube in the Mall,” “He Ate My Bread.” Those were the comedic titles I tried to come up with for my stories. All the writings were silly short stories which I wrote based on my dreams or off the top of my head.

“Tell me,” Iter spoke, “What is the pattern of all these stories?”

“Um, well,” I glanced at the papers, “They’re all silly and meaningless?”

“If that’s your opinion of your own writing, I’m very concerned.” Iter shook his head, “but that’s not what I meant. Give me another answer.”

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“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me,” I replied, “Can I get a hint?

“..Fine,” Iter came up with a hint, “Take a look at the length of all your stories.”

“Well, they each only go up to two pages…” I noted, “So they’re too short?”

“Iter picked up the papers and began reading off all its last sentences. “And so, they planned for their next plot,” “I smiled,” “I was scared,” “She looked for the cube with her hockey stick,” “I needed to get back at him.” A couple of these lines were read with an intense grimace on Iter’s face.

“Except for ‘A Cold Morning,’ none of these stories have a true ending,” Iter elaborated, “At some point, it even looks like you don’t care about what you’re writing at all.”

“Oh,” I looked down at my papers which he placed back down.

He was right. A majority of my stories were disconnected, and I usually stopped once our study session ended. Under the gaze of Iter, I just wrote to be done with the day. I didn’t find the joy in writing that I used to. Did I stop caring about writing?

Maybe it would have been better if I just stopped completely.

“Illate,” Iter asked, “Why do you write?”

I stared. I didn’t know how to answer him. I used to keep a very active writing journal for myself, but I haven’t written any since I parted with Itra. For some reason, the large care I used to carry for my progress in writing disappeared.

“Hey,” Iter commanded my attention, “I asked you a question. Answer.”

I forced myself to answer, “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to stop?”

I wouldn’t mind stopping. My school assignments have been catching up to me anyways, and I don’t have much I want to say anymore. Every time Iter tries to teach me, I only end up wasting his time. Putting an end to my writing didn’t sound too bad.

I thought about Itra.

“No,” I answered, “I don’t want to stop.”

She used to encourage me as she taught me.

“Why’s that?” Iter asked, “Is there some reason you have to continue?”

She would make the most complicated ideas understandable.

“I just…” I tried to respond.

She helped me finish my day without any regrets.

“I want to,” I said. “There’s more things I have to say.”

Iter studied me. He kept a stern look in his eye, before he replied, “You’re on the right track. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

The tense feeling I had at the table subsided. “Thanks,” I told him.

“Do me a favor though,” he added, “keep that mindset you just showed me. I’m sure it will help your writing.”

“I will.” I answered.

I decided I would start writing again.

“Now write,” Iter ordered.

The motivation I called from the depths of my mind took an immediate hit. I wished I could have a break.