The End in the Beginning

I didn't know what to say.

“If you were asked to write a eulogy for yourself, how would you tell your life’s story?” The charms on the instructor’s wrist rattled a melody on steroids, accompanied by the whine of AC, to create a symphony of doom that threatened to end my writing career before it began.

I shifted in my chair. Its battered metal squeaked and applied a chill to the back of my calves. A scan of my cohort in this windowless room, illuminated with harsh fluorescence antithetical to inspiration, revealed widespread bewilderment—eyebrows stretched to distant hairlines, lips pressed into thin lines, eyes like saucers topped with empty cups.

“Ha. Sounds like one of those motivational seminars I loathed.” I bristled at the brush of his shoulders against mine. Why do men do that? Just because we’re both taking this course doesn't mean instant kinship.

“I’m sorry?” He seemed harmless, with a grin bearing uneven piano key teeth, topped by a unruly mop of red.

"I'm Robert. Nice to meet you.” I accepted his rough-hewn palm, and his whisper was actually a growl, softened by warm cinnamon breath.

“I’m Jenny.” I bit my cheek and swallowed the tang of aggravation.

“No, what I meant was, doesn’t this all sound so tiresome? Write your own eulogy?” Robert poked me with his razor-sharp elbow.

I agreed, but chose silence. A break was scheduled fifteen minutes from now. I could slip away and get at least 30% back if I made a refund request before the end of the day.

A hand in the front row bolted high. “Excuse me? Some clarification, please, Virginia.”

“Yes?” The corners of Virginia’s lips twitched upward.

“Why do we have to write such morbid crap? Isn’t this course supposed to teach us how to write fiction?”

I didn’t catch her name at the sign-in table, but this woman in baby blue became my hero.

Virginia chuckled and raised a hand. “Well, Debbie, few of us have the opportunity to tell our own story when we die. So, this is a chance for you, as an aspiring author, to begin your journey with the written word with a subject you know best—yourself.”

“An autobiography, then? Not fiction?” A green felt-tip pen dangled from Debbie‘s manicured fingers, a rose-covered journal nestled in her lap.

Virginia steepled her fingers and cleared her throat. “Genre is less important than the narrative you weave. So, feel free to experiment-poetry, memoir, and, of course, fiction. The choice is yours.”

Begin with the end in mind. I read about that in one of those self-help books I received after the funeral, when I felt normal enough to think about my future again.

So many endings, most of them marked by misery, had led me here. Now this woman in a poodle skirt, like it’s the 60s or some other godforsaken time, wanted me to write my own eulogy.

Even if I knew where to start, I doubted my ability to hook my readers and keep them reading. Wasn't that the point of writing?

Virginia rubbed her hands together, a witch about to conjure up a terrible spell. “Who’d like to go first?”

“How ‘bout it, Jen?” Robert winked at me, and I’d never felt a stronger urge to punch someone in my life.

Instead, I muttered, “After you.”

“I’ll go first.” The chair squeaked a sigh of relief when he stood. “I’m Robert, born and raised here in Texas. And I plan to write an ode, in an homage to the epic poems of the great ancient storytellers. A tale as big as the Amarillo sky, my life story will have it all.”

“Well, that sounds like an amazing story you have already. Robert. Can’t wait to read it. Thank you.” Virginia's wide eyes belied her praise. Snickers and groans rippled through the rows, and I stared at a point behind her head to suppress the eye roll I knew Robert wouldn’t miss.

I just wanted to get back to my Jeep and out of the 95 degree July afternoon heat as fast as my huaraches could carry me. A check of the time showed our break started in less than five minutes. If I held out until then, I’d sneak out the—

“And what about your story?”

I felt, rather than saw, all eyes turn to me. Virginia held out a hand in my direction, as if she wanted to levitate me. Shit.

I blinked and bit the tip of my tongue, along with the sass that threatened to spill. “Well, you know, since it’s the first class, maybe I need more time to think about that. Do some plotting first.” Well, I did write an outline for the piece I submitted to a literary journal last December.

“It's just a pitch, for now. But what would you write, Jennifer?”

Heat crawled up my neck. A scream might have unleashed only half my rage. I was here to learn to write, not speak in front of strangers. “I don't belong here.”

Virginia strolled over to the end of our row just out of reach of my hand, probably a good thing. “You have a story to tell, my dear. It’s hard to put yourself out there, but I know you’ve thought about it."

I unclenched my fist and pulled my purse strap over my shoulder. Robert grabbed my arm. “You should stay.”

Robert's hand flew to his cheek when I jerked away. “Why? So I can tell you about the accident that killed my daughter when I fell asleep at the wheel? That I worked all hours to keep a roof over our heads after her father left? Is that the story I should write?” My throat burned, and I ignored the drumbeat in my chest.

A few chairs scraped the floor, and the bloop of a smartphone video being shot echoed. Great, my crashout might go viral before you could say “psycho wanna-be writer meltdown.”

“Well, Jennifer, that is quite a tale. More than enough emotion.” Virginia’s eyebrows knitted together, and her lips puckered into a scowl, annoyance mirrored in the slack-jawed faces of my classmates.

I stepped over Robert’s mud-caked high-tops and into the corridor, a dramatic exit executed to perfection, like some drama queen I always managed to avoid. Maybe I could find a free course and write a manuscript on my own.

An hour later, I sat in bed, wrapped in my softest gray hoodie and blanketed with Mama’s patchwork quilt, as crickets and other night creatures trilled a lullaby outside my window. When I reached the site, I stared at the page of testimonials and wondered how many of them actually reached the goal of publication. I hovered over the Refund bar, one click from the rescue of my self-esteem that dangled from the ledge of Giving Up.

Instead, I opened the Writer’s Chat link page to stalk aspiring writers braver than me. The first message I read contained the most encouraging words anyone has ever shared with me.

Jennifer, I hope that you write your story. I know that was a lot to experience, but you’re amazing, and I say this, even though we haven’t properly met. You’ve survived the worst things that could happen to anyone, and you’re still here, fighting.

Don’t give up, and I’ll be happy to read anything you write and help you.

Sarah A.

I mopped my damp cheek and closed my laptop, content to remain ignorant of whether my meltdown had been uploaded for public consumption, and sunk my head into the lavender-scented cloud of my pillow.

I made a to-do list for the morning— a thank-you note to Sarah, followed by the set of tasks I needed to complete before I began my initial draft.

I didn’t know what to say, but somehow, I'd find the words.