I went to see Nikki again yesterday, and she’s starting to really seem like herself again, biting sarcastic wit and all.
But sometimes when I glance over at her, I can still see the tiredness in her eyes, like she’s had enough of this already. I keep thinking I should have seen it sooner—that I should’ve noticed the skipped meals, the long showers, and all the things I learned a little too late. And then I think, what if it truly is too late? The world is full of a thousand little what-ifs, and I can’t stop tripping over every single one.
They say recovery isn’t linear. That’s what the pamphlet says, anyway. But I wish it was. I wish there was a map with a clear path out of the dark, because right now everything feels like walking blindfolded with no one even holding my hand to guide me. I reach out sometimes and think maybe I’ll find your hand. I hate that I can’t fix this for her. I hate that all I can do is show up with lattes and a smile and pretend I’m not terrified every second of every day that one day the damage will be irreversible.
Thanks for listening. I know you’d probably tell me something like Keep moving forward, or Take it one day at a time, and I’m going to keep trying to do that.
Love, Nat
I shut my Moleskine journal. I was almost out of pages in this one, and I made a mental note to pick up a new one next time I was at work. The late-spring sun was beginning to set, waking up all the frogs and cicadas, who sang their tunes into the dusky orange sky.
My letters to Dad weren’t impeccable pieces of prose by any means, but they were what kept me writing, and what kept me grounded.
I started writing stories when I was young, when everyone my age started reading theHarry Potterseries, and I was steadfastly Team Draco (I firmly believed he was misunderstood). Since that obviously wasn’t who Hermione ended up with, I took it upon myself to write the story I thought should happen.
I’d stayed up late when Mom thought I’d gone to sleep, scribbling pages and pages of stories into little notebooks. The first few years after my dad had passed, I’d seen a children’s grief counselor, and I’d shared with her some of my stories. She encouraged me to start writing my own stories about my own experiences and what I was feeling. At the time, I didn’t really understand. When you’re eight years old, you’re old enough to know what’s happened, but not old enough to understand the ramifications it’s going to have on the rest of your life. What kind of story was I supposed to tell?
So instead, I started writing letters to Dad. They were simple at first, just telling him about my day at school or about a birthday party I’d gone to where we played princesses and dragons. Eventually they transitioned into homecoming parties, breakups, what TV shows everyone was watching, and what music we were listening to. I was telling him stories, even if they weren’t fictional, and I looked forward to writing them. But these were mine—private conversations between me and my dad, as if we were still hiding in pillow forts and sharing secrets.
I thought back toHarry Potterand realized that part of the reason I enjoyed those stories so much was because there was an escapism factor to them, one I guess I’d needed. So I spent all of my college writing courses crafting short stories of magical realism. I got really into Stephen King and H. P. Lovecraft. I consumed all kinds of magic-based media. It was like finding my fictional escape velocity, and it worked for a while.
I had an interconnected anthology I’d written for one of my finals (very Lovecraftian in its format) and upon graduation, I sent the pitch for it to a few agents. Most of them gave me an obviously generic response they send to any submitting author when they couldn’t be bothered to provide feedback.
Hi Natalie,
Thank you so much for your query. I read your pages with interest, but unfortunately your manuscript isn’t the right fit for me. I’m going to pass, but do not be discouraged as every agent has their own tastes.
Stay well, and thank you again for sharing your work with me!
Best regards,
An agent who definitely had not read my pages
I was applying to entry-level jobs in publishing, too, in hopes that maybe I could finagle myself into the industry that way, and ironically enough got pretty much the same responses.
Hi Natalie,
Thank you for applying to our copy editor position. Unfortunately, we are moving forward with a different candidate for this role.
Best regards,
A company that wants six years of experience for an entry-level job
My only means of income right now was a part-time job at Stacks, a local bookstore downtown, where most of my time was spent reading, scribbling in my notebook, and shuffling through the jazz playlist that played throughout the cramped little store.
I knew I needed something fresh to pitch to agents in hopes of being published, but all I had so far was a half-completed beat sheet about a down-on-her-luck teenage girl who gets accidentally shrunken by a newly winged fairy experimenting with spells.
Maybe a change of scenery would help. So I moved from my desk to my bed. I changed positions about six times, switching from my stomach to my back to my stomach again. I played “Serotonin” by girl in red on repeat. I got distracted by my laundry. I folded and refolded my shirts (including the now coffee-free one).
Then I went downstairs to the kitchen and sat at the island and stared out the window at people walking by on the street, trying to differentiate the tourists from the locals and making up stories for them instead of working on my own.
Gracie found her way to my feet and let out a deep, far too burdened sigh for a dog who had a life full of naps and treats.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” I asked, optimistic that maybe a walk would helpmetoo.
Even in her old age, the wordwalkperked her ears up. So I grabbed her leash, hanging from the ceramic fruit hooks by the back door, and took her out. She didn’t really “walk” anymore, but rather ambled along casually, sniffing yellowing palm fronds that had fallen from the trees on the side of the road.
Of course, to the stranger walking by on the street, Gracie was still a big, scary horse-looking Borzoi, and sometimes they’d cross the street as they saw us coming, as if I was going to sic her on them.
