The Rewriting

It started out small and innocent—I started out small and innocent and without a lot of hope. I had a simple dream: I wanted to write, to be published and known. But isn’t that what we all want—to be known by someone else? Unfortunately, I wasn’t very skilled at writing—or so I was told by agents, editors, and a smattering beta readers that gave me a shrug and a wink as they passed my manuscript back with a “better luck next time” smirk.

It was disheartening but I still tried. I tried until I lost the desire to write. I didn’t even want to look at a pen anymore let alone a computer. Still, I did the thing I always do when the world turns into a dark gray cloud of despair—I wrote. I put all of my feeling and frustrations on paper. I poured my broken spirit onto the page as I visually wrote out my swallowed screams. Then I wet the page with tears, begging the universe for help, before retiring to my bed.

The next day, I rolled over and uncovered my head. My eyes were red and puffy, my hair a knotted mess. I called out of work and curled back into blankets that were still warm. But I couldn’t sleep. I tossed back and forth a few times tormented by the fact that I should be using the day instead of wasting it. And yet, I wanted to waste it. I wanted to wallow in self-pity and turn myself into a twisted mass of misery in the hope I could get it out of my system faster. I still had a life to deal with.

My mind, however, was a never-ending song of accusations. So I kicked off the covers and stumbled to my desk. I slumped into the chair determined not to write or even think about it. But the thoughts started coming. I couldn’t stop them. The way the cobbled sidewalk looked in front of the painted white house in my head needed to be on paper. The neatly trimmed shrubs and red shutters of the cape cod house had to be described.

So I caved. I wrote what I saw and it actually sounded good. It felt good too. Whatever the reason, the description of the imagined house was more vividly appealing than anything I had written before and I couldn’t help the swell of pride it produced because I knew—I knew—that this time someone had to agree it was well written.

Sure, it was only the description of a house, but it was a start and it could be the start of something greater. A whole book could flow from an opening scene on that porch. I just needed to find out what happened next and for that I needed inspiration. So after pulling on all the necessary clothes—and a pair of sunglasses to hide my swollen eyes—I headed outside. I would continue to do what I enjoyed—no matter what anyone else said.

The day was bright and cheery with the fading of spring and the onset of summer—nothing like the dismal night before. The few steps that lead to my house were painted to match the white house and—wait. When did I have steps leading up to a house?

My eyes hit the path that was no longer a slab of broken concrete. Beneath my rubber-soled shoes the uneven and multicolored surface of a cobbled walk greeted me. What the…? I stared at the ground while feeling the curve of each stone beneath my feet. Every rock was unique. Nothing was uniform or stamped by a machine. Each rock had its own veins of color: red, tan, brown, and gray.

My fingers clenched inside the pockets of my jeans, my hips turning so I could view the building I had just left. My breath caught. For there—just as I had written it not a half hour ago—was the cape cod house I had envisioned.

My jaw dropped.

My house? That was how I had thought of it as I descended the steps moments ago. But this was not the building I had walked into last night. I didn’t own a house. I didn’t even have a place to myself. I was renting a room from a man that had inherited a rundown home from his parents and had opened it to college kids. I was no longer in college but a frat room was cheaper than a regular room elsewhere in the city; and besides the massive parties on the weekends and a general lack of hygiene it wasn’t the worst living situation I had ever been in. At least I wasn’t living at home.

My eyes narrowed as I took in the white exterior and red shutters. It was all as I had described. I faced the street. The other houses appeared the same. I went back inside, closing the door slowly as I glanced around the interior. Everything inside remained unchanged—even the smell of old pasta that reeked from the fridge.

I pressed my lips together then climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor. The fifth and ninth treads creaked and the top of the banister was still loose. I wove my way past the first two rooms, hearing a whirring fan in one and the repetitive theme of a video game from the other.

I unlocked my door and stepped inside, closing it softly. My heart pounded in my chest. Was it possible? Is it possible? I felt my legs tremble as I sat at my desk and pulled out the piece of paper with the description of the house on. There was nothing special about the page or the ink pen I had used. There were no glowing objects in the room or an alien light coming from under the desk.

I ran a hand over the sheet as I felt the indentations of each letter. Then I skipped a few lines and began to write again. I described the interior of the house, the way the rooms connected, and the colonial style and color scheme of the furnishings. I added some floral wallpaper to the dining room and a coffee table that was more french than colonial with gold scrolls on each leg. The kitchen was filled with updated appliances—that worked—and instead of three bedrooms upstairs one of them was a reading room with a small library. Then—just because I had always wanted one—I added a fireplace in the living room with a step ladder of candles in the hearth.

I pushed the page back and stared at it. It was the kind of house I wanted. My hand shook as I pushed myself from the chair and approached the closed door. A chill slipped down my spine. My heart raced. I didn’t want to hope because I didn’t want to be disappointed, but I also wanted everything I had just written about to be real. I wanted the house and life I’d always dreamed of. If one thing was possible then maybe…

I turned the handle and stepped into the hall.

My breath caught in my throat as light lit the cream-colored walls and white banister. Along the hallway—framed between matte paper and glass—were pressed flowers. No music thumped in the background and the second door stood open.

I ran to it, my hands going to my mouth.

Inside the room that had once been a bedroom was a sitting area. An overstuffed chair sat in one corner next to a carved wooden table. Upon in and lining one wall were books both old and new. Another—bigger—writing desk sat against the opposite wall with a metal desk lamp and sack of fresh notebooks. I ran my fingers across each patterned cover before I flipped through the empty pages. There was so much possibility.

I squealed with joy. There is no other way to say it. I was ecstatic! I rounded the reinforced banister and clambered down the steps two at a time. Then I stumbled into the dinning room, passing into the kitchen, before making my way to the living room. The fireplace and candles where all waiting for me and there was another notebook sitting on the plush couch. A light blue pillow and gray throw where conveniently positioned nearby.

Tears sprang to my eyes. It was just too much. I could barely breathe. How is this possible? How long is it possible? Is there an end to whatever magic caused this? Do I even want to know?

No—I decided—I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to get as much out of this experience as I could. I wanted to change as much as I could while I could.

I rounded the couch and scooped up the notebook and pen nestled in its pages. I flipped through the first few as I pulled the pillow onto my lap then began to write. I wrote about my career as an author and the five books I had already published. They were all action-adventure tales with a dark element the characters had to overcome to save the day. I would probably have to come up with a more substantial story line for each one but this was just the beginning. There would be more and once I had more time—because as a published author I would be able to quit my receptionist job—I could invest in each of the preceding books while I figured out what the next one would be.

Again I squealed. I just couldn’t help it. It was all too good to be true. Famous last words, I know, but I was on a roll and I didn’t know how long it would last. Both the ability to affect change and how long that change would last were an unknown to me so I was going to enjoy it as much as I could. I didn’t even care if I had died or this was all just a dream. Right now it was good and it made me smile.

I closed the notebook only when my hand and back began to cramp. I didn’t know if this magic—or whatever it was—would work the same on a computer, so I was going to stick to the handwriting. But clearly I needed to take a break. And I needed to enjoy what all I had just written about.

I pushed myself up from the couch and stretched. With a sigh of contentment, I crossed to the front door and let myself out. Each step down from the porch contained an extra bounce. The sun was still out and with a smile I glanced at the manicured lawn where I had added an outdoor porch swing into a cluster of blooming flower bushes. What a wonderful day!

I moved onto the sidewalk that ran across the front yard and onto to the next house. I would need to look at changing the exterior of some of the nearby homes so that they at least looked good next to mine. Or maybe I could move my place to another city. I could relocate to a more upscale neighborhood. That was probably the better idea because there were still a lot of frat houses in the area and to move all those kids out when they were here because of school didn’t seem right.

But what about the girls that were living in the house with me? It was the first time my thoughts turned to my previous roommates. What had happened to them? Where did they end up going?

As if in answer to my question, I caught sight of Olivia. She had lived in the first bedroom upstairs and was now sitting on the stoop of a dark brown house that had red paint peeling from all its walls. A cigarette dangled from her fingers, her dark eyes lined with a heavy black liner that matched her unwashed hair.

I blinked. Olivia looked as she had when first I met her. It was as if our time together had never happened. Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe the changes I had made to the house had changed things for her too—besides the location of her address. I approached with a nervousness I wasn’t used to feeling around her. For while she had been intimidating at first, Olivia was very sweet inside and a joy to talk to—when she wasn’t using.

“You lost?” Olivia’s voice cracked on the end. She cleared her throat then blew a puff of smoke. “I think your house is down that way.” She waved her hand in a vague gesture then leaned on her elbows. The young man sitting next to her smirked. He had dark eyeliner too and lipstick to match.

“Olivia?” I asked as I stopped a few feet from her. Blood pounded in my skull. I felt faint. I had seen this girl through some really tough nights, had driven her to the ER a few times, and sat with her after her boyfriend had been killed in a car accident. We had talked and gotten to know each other. She had agreed to get help and was on the road to recovery. But had all that changed now? She didn’t look like she was trying to quit anything but life itself.

Olivia sat up and eyed me. Her skin was pale, her frame lanky and thin. “I don’t know you.” She blew another skunk-smelling cloud at me. I gagged. The boy laughed then pulled a puff of his own and directed it at my face.

I backed up. “Evee,” I said between coughs. “I said. My name’s Evee.”

Olivia shook her head. “I think you have me confused with someone else, lady. I don’t know any Evee—unless your talking about the Pokemon.” They both laughed this time then puffed some more.

I stood rooted in place. I didn’t know what to say. This was Olivia, but this wasn’t the Olivia I knew. She had changed because I had changed her living conditions. I hadn’t even considered such a thing was possible but somehow that one change had set her back and now…

I shuffled my foot on the broken bricks that lead to the crumbling house. For the first time I wondered what else had altered because of what I had done. There had been another roommate upstairs and three more downstairs in our house. What had happened to them? How had their lives been changed? Was it for good or bad? Could I undo it?

“Look, lady, unless you’re looking for someone to hook you up,” Olivia began as she stood on unstable legs, “I suggest you move on.” She glanced at the boy next to her. “I mean, you’re boarding on trespassing at this point.”

The young man snorted then coughed through the smoke he inhaled.

I took a step back. Guilt wrapped my gut. I had messed things up and I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know if I could fix it. I could try to rewrite Olivia into a better situation, to put her back in the house with me, but I didn’t know her well enough to recreate who she was as a person. And how much damage could I do to her personality if I tried to “fix” this? How many other people’s lives would that impact and how many had already been impacted by my actions?

I shuffled my way back down the street to my house. Though the sun still shined on the glorious house it no longer held a glow of excitement for me. What had I done?

I climbed the steps and returned to the couch scooping up the notebook and thumbing through the pages. I didn’t have the right to change the lives of other people just to make my life better. Everyone had their own baggage to deal with and they didn’t need me making that more complicated. I tore out the first page half expecting the room to dissolve into what it was before or disappear entirely.

But it didn’t.

I removed another page and then another. I kept tearing each one out until all that I had written was separated from the notebook. Then I began shredding them into pieces.

Still nothing happened.

I stood and went to the fireplace, pulling the lighter from the mantle and burning the sheet that held the description of the living room.

Nothing changed.

By the time I had finished off the rest of the pages my nose could smell nothing but smoke.

Nope.

Frustration boiled inside of me. How do I make this right?

I left the ravaged notebook with the ashes on the floor and climbed the stairs with the lighter in hand. Once in my room I picked up the sheet of paper that had started all this.

Without giving it much thought, I watched it be consumed. Then I closed my eyes and hoped. I hoped for things to go back to the way they were. I hoped for Olivia and Margie and Patty to return.

I didn’t feel any different when my eyes opened. The room didn’t look or smell different. My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob. I peered into the hall.

The sitting room and pressed flowers were still there. I sat back at my desk and picked up the pen. But I couldn’t write what had been there before. I didn’t know it well enough not to change something in the process of trying to recreate what was. The pen fell as I gripped my forehead with both hands, elbows hitting the desk. I messed up again and couldn’t go back.

What do I do now?