What The First Story Means To An Author

I never thought I could stop when I first started.

Many drug addicts and alcoholics may relate that same thought to their life. However, my obsession is not nicotine or booze; my form of addiction is writing.

At first, my hatchling of a book was merely meant as a form of therapy. It was a chance to escape from the hardships of this world and instead journey to a place where I have control of everything. But when my miserable life started to fix itself, I couldn’t find the strength to pull my thoughts away from my little fictional creation.

So I kept writing and I never stopped. I continued through the sleepless nights when my mind was screaming too loud, urging me away from sleep and towards my book inside of my computer. I endured when my story was lost due to my thoughtlessness when my entire computer malfunctioned, leaving the pages I wrote hidden from me with no way for me to gain them back. Rather than quitting in defeat at the knowledge that all my hard work was gone, I rolled up my sleeves and started anew. Somehow, my determination made my created world even better.

I didn’t even stop when my family begged me to, them believing I was wasting too much time on a petty hobby than my real life. Except I didn’t believe those words for a single second. For I wasn’t ‘wasting’ my life; I instead was making something of it.

My story is like a haven for me. The characters and lands I created giving me a place of belonging during my lowest times. And while some may claim I am insane for relying on fictional beings, they aren’t anything less than real to me. The struggles and pain reflect my own. The determination and strength they gained to conquer their challenges inspired me to conquer my own tribulations.

Yet, I knew my story has to have an ending.

The realization hit me harder than I ever thought it could; my heart suddenly weighed more than it should and my brain desperately sought after a solution to prolong the fateful conclusion. Deep in my subconscious, I was baffled at how afflicted I became from a single story. Something so insignificant shouldn’t have the power to affect my life.

This was the moment when I realized my story was something greater than a mesh of words. It offered itself to me when I needed it. To help me escape from the harsh reality of the death of a loved one and the agony of not knowing who you are meant to be. But, with every chapter I wrote, the invisible wounds were able to slowly stitch themselves together. I rejoiced when the pain from that dark time was erased, almost like it never made an appearance in my life.

Since that period ended and since I found true happiness again, I know my created world has outlived its usefulness. While I feel despair for discontinuing a piece of art that saved me, I’ll remain thankful and do it justice.

I know exactly how my book will end.

Tonight is Friday. On a normal Friday, I would feel drained by my energy-depriving job and look forward to a weekend of relaxation or fun. However, with the adrenalin coursing and pumping all throughout my body, I knew I would never be able to rest until my story finds a resolution.

Rushing throughout my tiny apartment, I shed off my constricting and formal work clothes and donned a comfortable pair of sweats and a simple t-shirt. I put on my kettle, forgoing my usual choice of coffee for a more delicious and healthy cup of tea. When all was done, I hurried over to my desk where my computer sat. I sloppily pulled my chestnut hair into a bun and threw my seeing-glasses on. With nothing left to do, I froze. I took a deep breath, knowing this will most likely be the last time I will write, and gingerly opened my laptop.

I risked a moment more of hesitation before I narrowed my eyes.

‘No more waiting,’ I thought to myself. ‘You must create the end.’

And so I did. My fingers flew across the keyboard, both adding and deleting words. I glanced at my outline sheet more than once, adding a few phrases here and there when I was struck with inspiration. I noticed the time slipping away and the sun being replaced by the soft glow of the moon, but I made no heed of it.

After a bit of time, I noticed my fingers starting to move sluggishly. My weary body and mind implored for me to sleep and return to writing in the morning, and while a small part of me was tempted to do so, my heart would never allow it. So, I decided to ditch the tea for coffee, hoping the strong, bitter taste would wake me up. But the brew was taking too long. My eyes began to droop and I somehow knew I needed a faster way to rejuvenate myself.

A solution slithered into my head, but I took no time to think about it until I was gasping in shock inside my shower, shivering at the cold water piercing my body and now fully awake. I was also fully clothed. Apparently, the sleep-deprived me ignored the common sense of ditching clothes before getting in the shower.

With a newfound sense of energy, I began where I left off and let my mind and fingers work.

It wasn’t until I heard the obnoxious clatter of the city just outside of my window when I stopped. My eyes widened rather dramatically when I saw the bright sun sitting unapologetically up in the sky. I wrote all through the night and partway through the day.

But when I glanced at my computer, I could only smile. There was one, final piece of my book that needed to be written and that was the epilogue. I forced down a yawn and refused to acknowledge my hungry stomach and sat back down at my desk.

I was always horrible at writing conclusion paragraphs when I was in school. However, I knew exactly what words I needed for this.

So as time passed yet again, I typed up the perfect ending. My perfect ending. Soon enough, I knew I was reaching the final few words and I forced my fingers to move slower, relishing this moment which is doomed to end. But typing slower did nothing to defeat the end, something I noticed with pride and sorrow as I wrote the final sentence.

I sat back in my chair, my back aching from the constant hours of slouching forwards, determinedly writing the multitude of words. It was bittersweet: the story which brought me comfort is complete, never to be worked on ever again, but my story is complete. I’m an author. Well, I may not be considered a professional author, but I am one nevertheless.

In the quietness of my apartment, there only left the resounding question ‘What am I to do now?’ ringing in my mind.

For some reason, I figured it would take me a great deal of time to answer the before-mentioned question. However, I glanced over at a photo showing a young child in the arms of a young man and woman; the girl had a childish grin on her face as the two adults looked lovingly down at her. I took a shaky breath.

An hour later led me on a grass path. Rock structures stood up in the ground surrounding me, most with some sort of inscription. I stopped beneath the wispy branches and leaves of a willow tree. Hugging the printed copy of my story to my chest, I kneeled slowly to the grass in front of two gravestones.

I breathed hesitantly through my nose.

“Hi, mom, dad. It has been a while.”

The only answer I received was the soft wind moving bits of hair into my face.

“I would have visited sooner, but I needed to finish this first.”

I didn’t receive any physical responses, yet my heart was filled with something I often found myself short of and that is peace.

I smiled with relief and happiness. I couldn’t find the source of this peace even if I tried, but I couldn’t dispute the fact it was there.

So with that in mind, I turned to the first page and began reciting our story (albeit with a fantastical twist) aloud to my parents. And every page I read was a step closer to something that eased the suddenness of my parent’s death.

One final time I allowed time to slip through my fingers as I read. I didn’t stop for a break nor did I check anxiously if anyone was watching me. I simply read until there was nothing left to read. At that point, I glanced back up to my parents and paused. I allowed silence to linger for a few minutes under the willow tree before softly saying, “I’ll miss you, but I’ll be okay now.”

I stood, whipping off the dirt on my jeans, and turned my back, walking towards the next chapter of my life.