AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Right.
I’m not the guy at the end of her story. I’m only the man who helps her get there.
And I need to remember that.
11
BEE
I killed someone yesterday.Destroyed them, really.
Hours of planning, and their existence was erased with a single keystroke.
Goodbye, Edin. Taken before anyone ever knew you.
I’ve been dreaming of writing since I was a little girl, after seeing the short story I wrote printed in the Elmsford newsletter. Just two lines, a short tale of two witches who lived across the road from each other. My mother cut it out, and it spent years on our fridge. My crowning achievement.
I’m not sure when I stopped chasing that dream, but by the end of high school, I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t good enough. I needed to study, to learn from others and hopefully follow in their footsteps. Even then, when I chose my major, I doubled in journalism. Just as a backup.
College was brutal. My professor—rightly, I can see now—accused me of half-assing my creative assignments, which only convinced me further that I wasn’t ready.Funny how I flourished in journalism, where I felt no pressure to be perfect.
Ghostwriting was a way of convincing myself that I wasn’t giving up.
Interviewing people is a skill I honed over years of people pleasing. It was easy to center other people’s stories, and being able to use my creative skills to bring them to life was supposed to be the best of both worlds.
I’m good at it. I won’t deny that. If I wanted to, I wouldn’t ever have to do anything else.
Which would be fantastic if I didn’t feel this clawing need to at least try.
So, I can’t procrastinate today.
If I want this—and I really, really do—then I need to take this seriously and stop avoiding it.
Despite what I’m sure people assume of me, there are things I do very well. While I lived in Chance, I surprised myself. Maybe it was the veil of anonymity I was gifted, so far removed from Elmsford and the memories soaked into every corner, but it was easier to try new things, to test my limits, knowing that if I needed to, I had a home to return to.
There’s also a lot I can’t do.
Chief amongst that list is this damn book. I wish I knew why it terrified me so much. I’ve been in publishing for five years now. I know the first draft is the worst one. I know an agent or editor passing on a manuscript isn’t always a comment on the quality, and that a writer should be prepared to shelve a project they’ve poured their time and energy into because there is no saving it.
I know countless writers who can admit to having that “one book.” The one they wish had been published that now only exists in a box or on a hard drive, never to see the light of day.
I know all of this.
And yet.
Elmsford isn’t a small town. We don’t know our neighbors, and there are countless name-brand stores. It’s a quintessential suburb north of a small city. No major events have ever happened here, and in all of my adult life, I’ve never bumped into anyone I knew unless I arranged it.
But it doesn’t stop nostalgia from hitting me at every turn.
The library is nestled in beside the rec center. My old middle school is on the same block, and the local pool’s a few steps away. I haven’t had a reason to visit in over a decade, but the outside hasn’t changed a bit.
Inside is a different story. After renewing my library card, I discover that checkouts and returns are automated now, with a self-service scanning station by the entrance. The Wi-Fi password is laminated and taped to the information desk, and half the room is cordoned off with rows of empty chairs facing a lectern.
I didn’t think five years could change the city so much, but I can’t be mad about it. I’ve changed since I left.
“There’s a pinboard in the hallway with the schedule ofevents. They’re all free,” Becca, the librarian, tells me. I’m more interested in where she got the pin on her blazer. Bright pink script informs me thatIf My TBR is Empty, Get Help.
I can relate.
