#lightread

“I can do it, just give me time,” your voice desperate as you push your iPad towards your father, observing his grimace of hesitation and ignoring how his little sigh of exasperation has your hands feeling clammy. “This editorial is going to blow your mind, I managed to get an appointment with Cut-”

“Y/n-,” your father takes off his glasses as he reclines deeper into his leather chair, pinching the bridge of his nose-almost as if a headache’s coming on. Standing in front of him, you can’t help but feel inferior. You can sense his dejection, so you push forward, pointing back to the bright screen on his desk. 

“Pa, no, listen, Headline is gonna be ahead of its time with this piece! I scheduled the appointment with Cutthroat’s top producers, getting the behind the scenes look of the making of the top 40 hits,” you reach towards your bookbag on the chair behind you, rummaging through its contents, but before you could take out the mood board you had put blood, sweat, and tears into for the past week, you hear the little click of the iPad. 

Your hands freeze. You close your eyes. You take a deep breath. You turn back to face him. You hang your head and your shoulders seem to lose their confidence, sagging as the tension in the room gets heavier every passing second. 

You lift your head to glance over at the device, observing his stern reflection on the black screen. You narrow your eyes at the obnoxious piece of technology. No, your inner monologue says, not today. You huff and you straighten your back, pushing your shoulders back, folding your arms as you look up at him. You refuse to look defeated in front of him. How dare he cut me off, you think to yourself. 

“That’s what you said about your last three editorials, y/n. I don’t need the ‘ahead of its time’ piece in my magazine, I need a ‘make an impact’ influence,” leaning forward, he pauses and sighs, staring at his folded hands, and with the gesture alone, you start feeling a dull ache in your chest. You clutch your sleeves a little tighter as the seconds go by. 

“Sweetheart,” you grimace at the nickname, “your pieces are predictable. Your last 3 have the lowest reads on the website and do you want to know why?” Your father stands up from his chair and steps around his desk, walking to the window that looks over Headline’s floor-interns and journalists chatting and typing away on their computers as if their life depended on it. The wall behind his desk joins your father’s reflection; the frames surrounding his various awards and words of praise seem to give him a glow through the transparent glass. 

Your eyes lock on the awards, and as you open your mouth to respond, he turns to face you, cutting you off before you even began, his finger wagging too close to your face, his hands resting at his hips, “I’ll tell you why; it’s because you’re not having fun.” 

As you take a step back, you swallow, your voice tight, “What does that even mean?”

“It means that you’re writing for the sake of writing. There is no personality in your words. It’s like I’m reading a textbook, a condescending and boring one,” he says matter of factly. 

You scoff, “Thanks for that, dad,” you roll your eyes, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear. 

He puts his hands up, “I’m critiquing you because I want you to be better. I want you to grow. And as you grow, the magazine will too.” He places his large hands on your shoulders, squeezing them. “You need to practice.”

Your eyes narrow, you push his arms away from you, your lips setting themselves into their usual grim line, and your arms positioning themselves back into their comfortable crossed state. “I don’t need to practice, I’m good at what I do. I graduated top of my major, my articles have been published in major newspapers and magazine-”

“And yet, with the time privileges that I give you, you just can’t seem to organize a good editorial or write an adequate article for Headline.” 

You close your eyes out annoyance, your hands now clenched and your tone defensive, “My articles are informative-” 

“Informative with no substance-”

“They teach the audi-” 

“ I didn’t realize you were a teacher-”

“Stop interrupting me!” You can hear your heartbeat drumming in your ears, your breathing becoming heavier as you open your eyes to look at the man in front of you-his eyes sharper. 

“Then start listening. Readers don’t care about your fancy credentials. In fact, they don’t care about you at all. They care about what they read, “ He strides back over to his desk and hands the iPad back to you, “The goal that I have for this magazine is enlightenment. I want our readers to be in love with the world they live in, so much so, they’ll want to pay 5 dollars to know it each month. All the while getting a free tote.” He points to the device in your hand, “Your job is to exemplify that goal in your projects, y/n. I’ve read your past works, I’ve read and felt the emotions you put on those papers. So why haven’t you been able to do the same here?” 

You look down, away from your father and the gaze trying to understand you. Instead of answering, you direct your gaze to the words of affirmation and praise that surround him, given to him by the most respected writers and journalists; artists. The frames don’t seem to give you that same glow when you’re in his space. Do the awards in your apartment give you that same glow? Will you glow when you have your own editor’s office? 

You bring the iPad towards your chest, clutching it like a lifeline. How do you tell your dad that you’re scared? How do you explain to him that even though you have been able to write piece after piece for other magazines in the past, you feel like whatever you write for him or Headline now will never be good enough? And that him telling you all this just confirms those fears? 

Knowing there would be judgment behind the eyes of your peers, you decided to work for your father. You thought it would be a great way to get to know him better, you thought you could even learn from and adapt to his work ethic; all this with the possibility of him seeing how capable you could be. How you could be just as good as your older sister. The sister that graduated from university at the age of 18, published her first novel at 22 and started her own publishing firm 5 years later. Successfully, might you add. 

You rearranged your entire life to meet the highest of unspoken expectations for your parents, for him. So, why is it when you want to prove to them that you can, the universe and your brain decide to work against you? 

Your fingers tap against the iPad, creating a steady beat as you rack your brain for something to say, something to do. After a couple more silent taps, you decide to take a seat on the dark violet guest chair. 

Clearing your throat, you look up at your father, “You said I had to practice. What did you have in mind?”