Words of Love

I'm scared I won't be successful in my life; do you know what it feels like to fail? It's strange because I grew up with optimistic parents. How did I become so negative? My fingers are on my laptop's keyboard – my old typewriter broke a few months ago, and now I can't seem to write anything new. Sunlight filters weakly through my beige curtains, just enough to light up my bedroom. I used to love this room, but now it feels like a place of writer's block and frustration.

I wish I could escape this apartment and my life. Anyone who has felt the pressures of life will understand the need to get away. Spending my time in front of this screen will definitely come back to haunt me.

It makes me miserable, nostalgic for better days. I miss my typewriter, the cool air on the balcony, and a hot coffee always by my side. Maybe I should write about it. Nostalgia.

Instead of this crime novel nonsense, I've grown tired of writing about cops and ridiculous villains. It's like cheap junk food for the brain. Every word feels like a slog, like trudging through mud.

I look at the walls and see pictures of old friends and family. It makes me feel nostalgic. Why can't I write about it? Why do I have to ignore my passions for a practical life? Will I keep writing about crimes until I can't do it anymore?

Maybe I’m amazed by how much I need to keep writing the same stories. I can’t move on because it would mean starting over. I’m trapped in a prison of my own making.

I walked into this trap the moment I took my college advisor’s advice. "Stick to your guns," he said. Well, I did, and now I’m miserable. Ten years later, I still can't understand why I chose to write crime novels. They're easy and cheap, but I can't even read or think about them anymore.

It's a curse that has only brought me this far. I don't even have a nice apartment, let alone millions. So, why not start anew? Nostalgia is a great inspiration.

My eyes wander around until I'm tired of looking for something to write about. I feel the uncomfortable heat in my neck when I feel useless or pretentious. Forget this: I'm getting out of this room.

Leaving my bedroom suddenly feels like coming out of a deep sleep or stepping out of a time machine. It’s really dusty. I see plates stacking up, books scattered all over the floor and on the couch, and my pile of books getting bigger. Those books, the ones I can't stand to look at.

My cell phone lies on the kitchen table amid a heap of unopened mail: letters, flyers, and magazines. I start sorting through them but quickly lose interest. Grabbing my phone, I'm bombarded with notifications—texts, emails, news alerts—everything from the modern world in one glance. I don’t bother checking my emails or the news. Instead, I focus on the first text I see: it’s from June, always worrying about me. I reply to her twentieth message, and she responds almost instantly.

An hour later, she’s knocking on the door. We messaged for a bit before she decided to come over and check on me. I guess staying in my bedroom doesn’t look good for my mental health. Not that I care; I do what I want.

I open the door, and she barges into my apartment. Her hair is blonde now, a change from its previous milky pink. I prefer it this way. She must notice my gaze on her hair because she starts her usual playful banter. “Do you like what you see? Or are you going to criticize?”

“It looks good, June,” I reply, my voice a bit dry. “I like it this way.”

"Good. Good," she says, fixing her hair. "You look messy, Bert."

"Thanks. Is that why you came over?" I ask.

"Yeah, to say you look bad," she replies. "And your place needs cleaning. It smells."

"I'll do it eventually," I say, sitting down. I move some books aside, and June does the same. She notices my broken TV. "Why's it broken, Bert?"

"I had a guest over...he got mad," I say, avoiding her gaze.

"That's not true. You're letting your anger control you," she insists.

I chuckle. "Nah, it's more annoying than anger."

"Need to talk to someone?" June asks, shaking my arm. I look at her.

"No," I say, standing up. That annoying heat is back.

"I think you do," she says, pointing at the TV.

"Not now. Please leave me alone," I say. "Don’t hassle me."

"Fine..."

She opens her purse and takes out a paperback book with a red cover and dark black text. It reads: “Words of Love. A novel by Angie L. Moore.”

“I brought this book over…I thought you would like it. I know you don’t read much romance, but I really thought this one was special. You should read it. She just published it, and everyone is going crazy over it.” June rambles on, but I only focus on the book cover. “So, you see, it’s a new masterpiece! According to some.”

“Interesting. I suppose I can read it,” I manage to say after an awkward pause. “Interesting.”

“Of course.” June hands me the book. It feels heavy, with a lot of pages and a lot of words. I can feel my inner writer getting jealous. I open to the first page. The first chapter is in Times New Roman font, size eleven. The words blur together as I try to read her story.

“Do you like it?” I hear June say in the background. “I thought it was okay. I like romances, but this one is more dramatic and sad. A kind of romance that leaves you feeling both low and high.”

“I’ll give it a read. She writes well. I think I might like it,” I say, closing the book and putting it down on the table. Will I read it?

“Okay, well, do you want to go out and do something? Maybe take a shower first? Shave!” June insists as she checks her makeup in her pocket mirror. “I think you need to leave the house. We could go to a bar?”

I hesitate. “Perhaps, maybe you’re right…”

“I am. Now get in the bathroom, mister. And, you know, shower.”

I laugh and head toward the bathroom.

June takes me to a local bar, one that's been open since the late sixties. Many Red Wings celebrations took place here. It’s a bit dark and stuffy, and it smells of smoke and beer.

“Oh, Bert! I love coming here,” June says, clutching my arm. “It’s the perfect place to get tipsy.”

“Right, tipsy.” More brain fog, less writing. It’s like I’m never really present, always behind a fog.

“You’re in your own head right now. Come on, Bert, let’s get some beers.” June leads the way to the bar, where Tommy the barkeeper is working. I’ve known him since I started drinking at eighteen. Going to this bar with friends used to bring me joy. Now, drinking just feels like failure; no joy, no reason except to honor the social contract with a friend. Social drinking: my least favorite activity.

I feel June's hand pushing on my shoulder, and I see a beer slide down the bar toward me. A lager. Another drink to spoil my mind.

“You know who invented beer?” June asks, gulping down her drink.

“The Egyptians. That’s easy,” I reply as we start our usual game of guessing random trivia. “Although it was more likely discovered by the Sumerians in Mesopotamia.”

“I need one answer.”

“The Sumerians.”

I shift in my uncomfortable seat. I feel the heat pressing down on my neck. I take a sip of my beer; it tastes awful. Why do we drink this sewer water?

“Okay, who was the first band member to leave the Beatles?” she asks.

“John Lennon,” I reply.

“Wrong. Stuart Sutcliffe.”

“Fair enough. Ringo was actually the first of the main core to leave the band. I remember that now.” I chuckle, taking another sip of my beer.

“How’s your writing going?”

I hesitate. “Fine. Everything is fine.”

“Hmm. I doubt it. You were like a caged ape with the way you smelled in there,” June laughs. “Call me your savior.”

“I’d rather not.”

As the night wears on and more rounds of drinks are ordered, I find myself gradually succumbing to the warmth of alcohol. Laughter fills the dimly lit bar, and I join in, my smile widening with each passing joke. Yet, beneath the veneer of merriment, a nagging sense of disconnection gnaws at me. It's as if I'm watching myself from afar, detached from the raucous ambiance around me. The laughter echoes hollowly, a facade masking the turmoil within.

But it’s all a delusion, a hazy mirror of reality.

“Okay, Bert. I have a harder question,” June says as life becomes blurry and less recognizable. “What was the first battle of the American War of Independence?”

That is a hard question, one I’ve never really thought about. An iconic battle in America's history, I’m sure.

“It was close to Boston...Concord...Lexington...” I mumble.

“Correct. Concord and Lexington,” June says with a laugh, taking a big sip of her third beer. She’s starting to sound ridiculous and drunk, loud and awkward.

“I wanted to talk to you about something, June. I don’t know how to say it properly. I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Sure, what is it?”

I don’t want to admit weakness. I’m slipping, making a mistake. “I’m not sure if I can go on much longer.”

“Are you talking about life?”

“Kind of. I mean, the books I write. I don’t care about them anymore. I want to discover a new side of literature, something that will give me the will to write again. That computer screen is starting to bring me down,” I say, finishing my third beer. I pull out my wallet to pay for the drinks.

“Hold on, you’re just gonna say that and walk out of here?” June says as I put down cash for the tab.

“Yeah, I gotta go. Need to finish writing my next book if I want to get paid. Bye,” I say, turning around. I’m ditching my best friend; she’ll continue drinking. She knows the drill. I need to get home.

Resting my fingers idly on the keyboard, I watch the cursor blink rhythmically on the screen, taunting me with its vacant stare. Midnight draws near, yet my mind remains a barren wasteland, devoid of inspiration. The weight of expectations presses down upon me, suffocating any semblance of creativity. What once felt like a boundless expanse of possibilities now feels like a suffocating void, swallowing me whole.

With a heavy sigh, I tear my gaze away from the screen, seeking solace in the familiar confines of my cluttered room. Amidst the chaos, my eyes come to rest on the novel June had brought me earlier – Words of Love. I pick it up tentatively, fingers tracing the embossed letters on the cover. What secrets lie within its pages? What truths does it hold that have eluded me for so long?

I turn off my computer, staring at my reflection in the black screen—a distorted image that looks like a painting. Experimental. Not really me. A robotic version of myself. A blank state of being.

I pick up the hefty romance novel, imagining it to be mediocre. A bunch of hopeful words strung together to make you feel better about your loneliness. False positivity. It’s like a science.

Lying against my headboard, I begin flipping through the pages, absorbing every word.

                                                     *  *  *

I wake to my alarm; it's bloody aggravating. Everything is hazy, as it is every morning. The book of lovely words remains exposed open next to me, the page saved—I nearly finished it.

June was right. The book is phenomenal.

There's something about the way the author writes; she's like a painter with words. I hate to admit it, but I like the book. June will be pleased.

Rising to my feet is challenging; my brain is cloudy. I walk over to the computer. Turning it on, I find myself staring at the white page—empty, devoid of substance.

Moving forward with words means writing down what feels right to you. It’s something I can't achieve right now, as if my brain is turned off. That creative part of my mind—I can’t reach it. Not even the surface.

But the words in Angie’s novel make me believe it’s possible. They make me believe in the ability of words again.

I look over at the open book on the disheveled bed. It’s time to finish reading it.

It's nearly five in the evening now, the doorbell is ringing, and I can't stop writing. Saying I'm inspired by Angie’s book would be an understatement. The words are flowing, and I can’t say I’m disappointed. This is all I ever wanted. I hear knocking at the door now; it must be June. But I don’t want to look away from the page—it’s so beautiful, like Angie’s.

The knocking fades away, leaving only the sound of my fingertips tapping and the outside noises of the city. Cars, horns, birds chirping.

I can’t wait to show the world my new book—it’s going to take them by surprise. June will appreciate my change. A proper book.

The sunlight peeps through my blinds. I open them up, and the sun rushes in. For the first time in a while, I feel golden, renewed, and happy. As if the world will turn out just fine.

I type on my black keyboard; all those little letters mean so much to us. I’m nearly finished, just a few more clauses. Why am I not exhausted or hungry?

The book’s lead is nearly done with his journey, just a few more words.

What time is it now? Six o'clock. It’s getting there...

“Hey man, it’s June!” I hear from behind the door. She’s calling me again, but I am so close. “Open the door, man. You’re losing it in there, aren’t you?”

No, I’ve found myself again. I am nearly done! So close! Finally, a story that will bring people joy! My great story that will be remembered for generations.

I can hear June screaming now. One more sentence…

                                                      *  *  *

As I open my front door, June strides in, a blend of cigarettes and mint chewing gum wafting with her. There's a tense energy about her, evident in her darting eyes scanning the room.

“Where have you been? Bert, you’ve been M.I.A. and I was worried.”

As I stroll back to my room, her words fall on deaf ears. All I can think about is sharing my latest story, one destined to make waves. Without a second thought, I unplug my laptop and head to the living room where June awaits, her expression filled with concern. Seating myself on the couch, I beckon her over excitedly. "June, you have to see this! I've penned a masterpiece."

"Jesus, Bert. What's gotten into you?" June's voice cuts through my excitement”

"My new novel. Angie inspired me," I explain, pacing as I recount the details.

"Angie? The author? You've already read the book?" June's confusion is evident.

"Read it? I absorbed it! Finally, I see the light! The essence of writing! 'Inspired' doesn't do justice to what I feel."

"You look even worse than yesterday. What's happening?" June's concern deepens as she observes me.

"Here, take a look at this. I need your feedback on my latest piece," I urge, gesturing towards my work.

June cautiously approaches and settles beside me.

"Go ahead, June. Dive in," I say, my smile wide with anticipation. As June reads, her expression grows increasingly troubled, and my anxiety mounts with each passing moment. "So? What's your take on it?" I inquire, my hands trembling inexplicably. Why am I so jittery? Will she approve?

"Good Lord, Bert. This is... unsettling. What were you aiming for here? The protagonist seems unhinged. Is this meant to be a thriller or a love story? It feels disjointed," June remarks, her gaze lifting to meet mine. “Bert…this isn’t normal. Not for you.”

"What do you mean? It's a captivating tale!" I defend, my excitement faltering as June's expression shifts to one of fear.

"Bert..." June's eyes lock onto mine, filled with trepidation. "Why is this character named after me? And why is she depicted as uninterested in the main character?"

"She's the love interest," I explain, attempting to rationalize my narrative choices.

"But... Bert... she clearly isn't interested in the main character. Do you not see how unsettling that is? It's like..." June struggles to find the words to convey her discomfort. “She’s being forced into it…”

Placing my laptop on the coffee table, June's disapproval is palpable as she shakes her head. "I think I should head out, Bert. Maybe you need some rest or something."

"Do you... not like it?" I ask timidly, the weight of her criticism sinking in.

"No. I think you should delete it," June asserts firmly.

Watching her leave, my closest friend's departing words linger in the air. "You might want to seek some help," she advises before exiting.

Alone once more, I'm left with my thoughts and my manuscript.

June's reaction stings, but perhaps others will appreciate it.

Surely, it is a masterpiece…surely…

With this in mind, I retreat to the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind me. I'm determined to find a way to share this book with the world. It's not a flight of fancy; it's a personal mission. For myself. For Angie.