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It’s silly. I haven’t even seen his face, and here I am packing lingerie for him. Before I can think twice, I shove it to the bottom of my bag. It’ll be too cold to wear it up there anyway. Besides, men like him aren’t my type. Out of the three men I’ve dated in my twenty-six years of life, all of them were in the publishing industry.
My first serious boyfriend, Ethan, was an aspiring author like me. We got together in college. But when my books hit it big and his didn’t, he dumped me.
George was worse, in some ways. He told me he had no interest in writing whatsoever. That’s the reason I picked him. He was average-looking and mediocre, at best. He was safe until he wasn’t.
I’ve booked the cabin for two weeks, which will be enough for me to get a dent in the book. Once I’m about fifty percent through, I’ll send it to my editor. That will hopefully keep her off my back till New Year’s. Nobody likes to work during the holidays, after all.
I put my laptop inside my backpack along with my iPad. My stomach knots. I’m not an adventurous person, but I can practically sense the cabin calling out to me. I know it’s what I need to get my head straight.
* * *
I renta car from down the block before leaving town. It’s almost twelve, and I estimate that I won’t reach the cabin till it gets dark (something I’m hoping to avoid on my climb up the mountain). I try to make up for the lost time, but it’s impossible to do when your enemy is the atrocious Manhattan traffic.
Once on the freeway, I crank the windows down to feel the early winter breeze on my face. I’m buzzing with excitement, there’s a thrum just beneath my skin. This is how I feel when I’m about to write a new book, when the characters and plot come alive in my head. Getting out of the city seems to be working already. I have three scenes in my mind when I pull over for gas and a couple sandwiches for the road.
I check my phone. The host hasn’t messaged me back yet, but he hasn’t canceled my booking, either. He’s probably shy, I reason.
I bite my lip, wondering if this is a bad idea. It’s almost dark, and I still have to drive twenty miles uphill. If the listing isn’t what I think it is, there’s a chance I might get trapped up in the mountains for the night. I’ve heard my share of Airbnb horror stories from my friends. After all, I won’t be the first writer to have the brilliant idea of going away to an isolated place to finish her book.
Maybe I’ll be kidnapped by the sexy, faceless host. Maybe this is his ploy to reel me in. Maybe I’m the one he’s been waiting for…
I don’t realize when I slip into my character’s thoughts. Writing is muddy like that, especially when the line blurs between fiction and reality. Now, instead of me, I imagine my heroine is the one driving down a lonely stretch of road.
Draft Excerpt:
I’m on my way to my friend’s home. She lives in this tiny Appalachian town perched in the mountains. The roads here are slippery, and I’ve never driven my Mini Cooper this far from the city before, so I’m tense and alert as I drive. Nothing but tall trees greet me on either side. There’s no sign of life. Birds chirp above me, circling the trees. Is it a bad omen?
My book is starting to sound like a horror novel. I really can’t get the tone right.
“Damn writer’s block,” I say, putting my notebook away. I like to draft in an old-fashioned way. I jot down the key points before moving on to the actual writing. It does significantly slow me down, but my books come out the way I want them to.
I make my last and final stop as I enter the cozy town of Wishing. The gas station is small and has only two lanes. It’s old, and it’s a bit of a struggle to put the gas in, especially since I don’t do it often. I’m not exactly a car girl, and definitely not used to driving stick, but my options were pretty limited.
There’s a Mini Cooper parked next to me but I can’t see the driver. It’s painted a slick black, and I can imagine the heroine in my book driving the exact car. I take out my phone and type in a small note to add that detail to my draft.
My neck burns and my skin tingles with the awareness of someone watching me. I start to look up when I’m distracted by the arrival of an old man, probably in his early sixties, with a head full of white hair.
I relax when he smiles at me. He seems totally harmless. I’m on edge for nothing. Besides, I have pepper spray in my bag. All I need to do is spray it in his eyes (just like my mom once taught me) if things go south.
“Are you new around here, miss?” He has that lilted upstate New York accent.
“I’m just on my way up to the cabin on the mountain,” I say.
He scratches his head. “Are you sure?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Yeah, I booked it off Airbnb.”
“Strange,” he says. “Those folks don’t look like they like guests around their place.”
Those folks? I had assumed it was the host, Arthur, living alone there. Maybe he even built the place, for himself or to host the Airbnb.
“It’s self check-in, so they won’t be there,” I say.
The man looks at me like I’ve gone crazy. He just walks away, shaking his head.
I frown. What the hell is that about?
The road has already darkened by the time I drive up the mountain. Wishing sits at its feet. The bright lights of the small town appear like tiny dots of stars the further I climb the mountain. I stop at a bend in the road, drinking in the stunning vista.
