See Through It

I’m not sure why I’m still here, three hours after the manager closed for the night. I was initially sitting in my corner stool, looking at the out-of-place painting of children playing on a beach. I’ve told the bartender more than once to damage it ‘accidentally’ and get an appropriate photo for this place.

Despite the oddly guilt-tripping painting, I love this place. The ambience inside; warm lights and polite staff, rich food and private booths to eat. I’ve even made friends with one of the part-time waiters, which I’ll probably mention as a milestone at this year’s family Christmas dinner. I wonder if this time I’ll be free from the invasive questions pertaining EVERYTHING. I wish mom would stop stressing over things that haven’t yet happened and learn to enjoy the now.

I haven’t told her I lost my advance with my publisher since I didn’t submit my draft when I said I would. The story I was writing was a complete disaster. The plot was a drag and so were the characters. They just weren’t edgy enough for the plot twist I had in mind. So, instead of telling the truth and requesting an extension like a normal person would, I pretended I had it all coming together and ignored the publisher’s enquiry emails until he threatened me with a lawsuit.

It’s all handled now. I lost the book deal and the publisher’s trust.

And now? Now I’m scared to write at all. I feel like a failure. Like an imposter in my own life.

I came to this restaurant tonight, for something. Anything to re-spark my writing. I read somewhere on Instagram that inspiration can come from a place I’m comfortable in or completely unfamiliar with. Obviously, I chose what I’m used to. Typical move from a demotivated writer. Am I even a writer?

Okay! That’s enough. I know talking myself down isn’t wise. I’m now sitting outside the building of the restaurant I love and still…nothing.

No inspiration. At some point, while inside I started fixating on people’s shoes and tried to recreate my characters by the condition of the shoes I was looking at, along with the different sounds of footsteps. It was fun, until I realized the entire story would need to be re-cultivated into the current era instead of the early 80s. What was I thinking?! What do I know about the 80s except the amazing music we got? Okay! Again, that’s enough.

I should go home. It’s a warm evening with light wind and a star-lit sky…but no inspiration. I went to church last week, I know mom would’ve been so happy if I told her. But it all would’ve felt like the falsehood that the pastor preached about. The truth is I went there looking for what I’m looking for now. I guess that would be ‘right posture, wrong motives’ to the saints.

I’ve been here for over an hour; the street is so quiet I can hear myself breathing. I pick my bag and start walking back to my flat, punishing myself for not finding what I came for.

There have been numerous moments since the saga with my publisher, when I’ve felt a bit of courage bubbling on the inside and dialed his number. It wouldn’t ring before I changed my mind. I haven’t figured out if it’s shame that’s keeping me from pleading for redemption or pride. I’ve considered that it could be both and my brain exhausted itself pondering that.

I’m at my door working the lock when my phone rings.

I drop the key back into my lapel bag and grab the loud device.

For whatever reason, I don’t notice that the caller ID read “unknown” before I answered.

“Hello?”

“Uhm…hey. Max it’s Raven. How are you?”

Cat’s literally got my tongue and I’m sure she picks it too.

I clear my throat to break the awkward silence.

“Hey. Hey Ray. I’m great, yeah. Wow.”

I don’t know if that’s helped but I’m frozen; with one hand holding my phone and the other leaning against my front door.

“Well. I’m glad. Listen I know this is weird and maybe strange. It’s just that, I work with your publisher and I heard what happened with your deal…”

I don’t catch what she says next but I feel the blood flushing from my face. What an uncanny coincidence. I fight my thoughts and try to concentrate again, still frozen.

“Oh yeah, well that sucks that you’ve heard about that. I feel more embarrassed than I did two minutes ago”, I sound as embarrassed as I feel.

“Max. I know you. Or, at least I have known you. I remember how crazy your weekends would be when you’d be chasing a deadline writing for that column you loved. They didn’t deserve your willingness nor that talent. When I read your first book, I knew we as readers don’t deserve you either. Your voice, your creativity, the edginess in your writing. All of it. You’ll always be too good for this market, but it makes you the best writer.”

I swallow the lump building in my throat and say nothing. She continues.

“Look, I know I have very little ground to be calling you late at night but I wasn’t going to sleep if I didn’t. Whatever is holding you back from writing is literally a weapon formed against not only you but all of us loyal readers. I called because I wanted to remind you of the last time you had an ‘episode’ like this one. You remember how you wouldn’t eat or shower for an entire month?”

I hear her trying to suppress a chuckle at that question, as it lingers on the line.

“Yeah, I remember that. Thank you for never telling anyone about it. You’re a gem”, I confess that too enthusiastically for my liking.

“Yeah, thanks. But you remember what we did that eventually picked you out of that funk, right?

I recall what she’s speaking about and the tears practically jump out of my eyes. My dad was the hero. He called me, by Raven’s request, and said he felt something was wrong. Then he charged me to wash up and meet him at the park which was just blocks away from my campus building. He was my hero well before that day, but what he did that time was pivotal. He changed my mind about me, and I knew he was already proud of me before my first-ever book tour. It all was a sweet gift to him and myself when my first novel was published. But then I lost him five years later.

“Max? Hey, are you still there? I didn’t mean to upset you, it’s just that…”

I stop her by clearing my throat.

“No, don’t do that. You’re not the problem here. You never were. I remember what happened back then”, I sniffle between words.

“I just haven’t even been to his grave since…”

I hear Raven sniffling on the other end of the line too. She and dad were close as well. Dad thought she’d make an exceptional life partner and when we lost him I pushed Raven away as fast as I could. Anything that reminded me of dad had to go. That’s how I thought I’d work through his death.

Apparently, that’s one more thing I was wrong about.

“What do you think I should do, Ray?”

“I’ll go with you. We’ll pray and sit as long as you want, but you need it Max. You need to release that ache. I’ll be right there if you need anything”, Ray sounds stern and I know she won’t leave it alone.

I’ve run from this long enough. From dad.

So, I pause, take a deep breath and answer her shakily.

“Okay.”