Dedication Page Ready

A fool for thematic music, I press skip, skip, skip until the deep guitar of Vance Joy’s “Red Eye” crescendos into my study. I’ll settle for a smidgen of comfort. The past week of editing this manuscript of mine while home alone has dragged the surrounding walls closer, muted the colored pens’ ink, and drained the desk lamp’s brightness. My fingers cramp, though the pain only strikes when I close my strained eyes. Please get back, Sydney.

11:17 pm. I trust that she’s boarded, settled into a window seat near the back of a commercial airliner. Just over seven hours away, but I’m helpless to the ocean between us. All I’ve accomplished for the past hour is tidying my piles of papers into neater piles. That and shuffling through indie folk music tracks until any song about love or coming home could flood this dim room.

With Vance belting his refrain ahead of chorus one, I blink until “Chapter 29” narrows into focus. Not a soul had warned me of the first-time indie writing burden. To pour my attention over my own words, again and again, hoping once they’re all written the reader will understand. That he or she will see fiction more like reality—or vice versa. Whichever outcome each reader might need to feel more validated. And that a “thank-you” to me, Nate Rhodes, might regenerate the inspiration I’ve spent for myself to get this far.

I scribble, in purple ink, beside the opening line: Add transition? The previous chapter ends on my main male character’s point of view, so the contrast to his female counterpart invites initial confusion on this page. Do established authors sweat every one- or two-word phrase like this? At times, I debate including a transition at each sentence, but that’s too much, right? That speaker from the novel-writing seminar last month had reiterated: “Trust your reader.” Joshua, I extend my trust to you, first and foremost, for that advice in exchange for the thirty-five dollar admission fee. As a budding creative writer, the experience…

From darkness, my nose brushes the white page of words. I thrust my head back upright, the mesh swivel chair creaking under me. The first week apart from Sydney since before our wedding, and of course my sleep schedule devolves to a college student’s consistency. Except my thirty-four-year-old body contends with the clock every minute past ten. I’m capable of cooking more than ramen noodles and scrambled eggs at this age, but my wife enables me to be the Nate worth integrating into the outside world.

As I restart my Chapter 29 read-through, I rub behind my stiff neck. This final chapter troubles me. “THE END” resides merely a few pages away. All I care for is Sydney’s embrace. But I had told her to expect my edited draft upon her homecoming.

“Since you’re almost done, won’t you share your story with me when I get back?” She had asked.

“Yes, of course… I might even have the dedication page ready.”

“Ooo? And that’s to…me?”

“Woah, a little presumptuous, aren’t you?”

Eventually, that conversation had ended with the exact embrace I now long for. A pick-up hug: her arms wrapped around my shoulders, feet dangling in the air. And my arms locked along her lower back, spinning until one of us says: “Stop—before I puke my love.”

I set aside the purple pen, back into precise alignment with the other five. Instead, I grab orange, representing verb and adverb edits, maybe the simplest for my weary brain to grasp right now. Keep singing, Vance. 11:21 pm. Sydney’s flight is due to land at 6:50 am. How perfect will it be to finish these edits during her red-eye? My first novel. And despite teasing her, my wife knew full well the dedication page would be to her. With the thin plastic barrel of ink nestled in my fingers, I hunch closer to the page, scanning for verbs and adverbs. Verbs and adverbs. Verbs and…

***

The ground blurs, a hollow white beneath me. I turn and face a long, bulking tube with near and far segments that shimmer; the vivid orange section in between stares back at me. To lift the tube, I stoop and cradle the close end within my hands. But I am struggling. As I command my muscles tighter, the cylinder will not budge. I shuffle beside this obstacle, straining to push the shimmering surface away. No movement. Why the hell am I so feeble?

New tactic against the tube: go over it. I step toward the inviting orange nearby and find I can grip the surface. With my now cooperative muscles, I advance one appendage at a time, scaling the rounded edge and hopping off the top. I land on more white. An amber orb levitates above me, illuminating my surroundings. Deep beyond the edge where the white ground ends, a dark, charcoal mountain of sorts looms. An odd mountain. With zigzagged lines horizontally end-to-end. A peak that rounds across the entire horizon. No jagged spikes; no protrusions of trees or rocky overlooks. Just a towering facade of…mesh?

So I about-face. A black gloss puddles on the ground before me. No, not puddles. Lines? The black substance streaks into flawless lines. From my vantage point, the straight edges intersect perpendicularly with a flat block of the same material. The letter “T”? It all lies embedded in the white base, in its evoking purity. To my right, a ring of black forms the distinct shape of an “o”—what is this? A message? “To”...

My feet glide further away from the tube that previously stumped me. I accelerate. Still, more glossy letters register. “S.” “y.” “d.” “n.” As I run, the same giant orb above melts the letters into a hazy blur. Full speed, faster than I have ever moved in my entire existence. “l.” “i.” “f.” “e.” The white floor’s border approaches—an abyss beyond. But I cannot stop. One last bound off my left foot and I…

***

My head drops toward my lap. I jolt upright. The study surrounds me again. And the desk lamp’s muted hum reaches my ears before a yawn sneaks from my mouth. 11:59 pm. I clasp my hands together, the face of my skin warm from the lamp. The white page before me rests undisturbed. While I had napped, Chapter 29 had remained unedited. Still, the most important words in this debut novel of mine managed to enthrall me.

To Sydney: my luck, my love, my life.