One percent

It had gotten to a point to where I didn't feel the heat anymore. It beat down on my head and shoulders. Sweat ran down my back, clinging to my shirt and soaking the waistband of my skirt. It even trickled down the backs of my knees and elbows, weaving through my scalp like a car in a race. But I didn't notice. My mind was racing. My fingers were wiggling as if they were plucking the ideas from my mind and arranging them neatly in the air.

"You know what they say?" I looked up and smiled, pausing on my walk to let the butterfly land on my shoulder.

"What do they say?"

"They say that inspiration is one percent great ideas and..."

"99 percent perspiration," I finished. "How did you know I was thinking?"

"You get that goofy look on your face." The butterfly teased me by brushing his wing against my cheek. "I just wanted to remind you that your ideas, as brilliant as they may be, are nothing without work."

"I have no problem working," I grumbled defensively. "I just always run out of time. If only I could quit my job..."

"There will always be obstacles," the butterfly said, tiptoeing down my arm. My hairs stood on end, though my skin was blazing. "There will always be time problems. It's how you work with those obstacles that is important."

I rolled my eyes, knowing he was right. We walked in silence for awhile. The butterfly climbed up my arm and perched on my shoulder.

"But you are on the right track," he murmured.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You're doing what makes you happy for that reason alone," the butterfly explained. "You're not longer trying to prove something to someone. You've finally given up your pride in favor of following your own path."

"But I'm still insecure," I mumbled, my cheeks flushed from both the heat and shame. "I still worry that no one will like my stuff, that I'm really not as good as I think I am. Sometimes I think I'll have hardrive on hardrive of stories with no one to read them."

"No you don't." I stared at the butterfly. His wings opened and closed slowly.

"What?" I said, startled.

"No, you don't," he repeated. "You don't think that at all."

I gaped at him and he sighed. "Your insecurities think that, not you," he explained. "Because even while thoughts may run through your brain at midnight and whisper your writing is juvenile, your stories cliche and your books are full of plot holes and crummy text, you don't believe it. You may think it during weak moments, but you know it's not true. And that's what is important. You finally have gained the confidence to go your own way. A maverick, if you will."

I snorted. "Me? A maverick?"

The butterfly looked at me wryly. "What other 23-year-old girl talks to butterflies and writes stories about boys looking for wings? Most girls your age would be trying to get a job or become a reality show star."

I smiled. "Do you really think I have what it takes?"

The butterfly lifted off my shoulder and fluttered to my nose. The tip of his wing touched mine briefly, a delicate kiss of reassurance. And with a wink and a smile, he was gone. I was left to stare at the clouds as they floated across the pale blue sky. With a smile, I went inside.

I have 99 percent more work to do.