A Love Letter to Myself

“By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Flames were all around us now, burning in such an inviting way that I stepped toward them without thinking, completely in awe with their glow. Just as I got close enough to feel the heat licking the soles of my shoes, someone grabbed my arm. As my unidentified savior pulled me back to safety, cursing me all the while for being so stupid, I was struck by a strange nostalgia for something (or someone) I always wanted but never got to have. That voice, I thought. God, that voice. I turn around slowly, all the while expecting to wake up and realize this was all a dream, but just as I catch a glimpse of the tousled brown hair, I realize I’m more awake than I’ve ever been in my entire life. My breath catches, and I stare in awe as you down look at me with eyes brighter than the flames encircling us. Here you are again, I thought, after all these years, standing in front of me with flickers of the dying October sun burning like an actual fire in your eyes, demanding me to notice you. “

Lame.

I put my pen down (or throw it down, rather) and sigh into the mostly blank sheets of paper lying on the desk in front of me. What kind of story is this? I look over the horribly scribbled words a second time and sigh again, thinking that this may just be the worst story (if I even have the right to call it that) I’ve ever written. I leave my seat and walk into the kitchen to make myself some hot cocoa, thinking that maybe that’ll be just the thing to cure my writer’s block. As the cup rotates ever so slowly in the microwave and I wait for that god-awful beeping noise to ensue in the next 37 seconds, I turn to look out the window. It’s such a lovely Tuesday night in October, I think to myself just as that god-awful beeping noise starts screeching behind me. The leaves are just beginning to peak in their lovely subdued hues of orange and red and yellow, and here I am, leaning against my kitchen counter, realizing that there are so many more beautiful things to write about than the way some boy broke my heart. I take my steaming cup of hot cocoa out of the microwave, proceed to raise it in the air in a whimsical manner, and crack a slight smile for the first time in ages. “Cheers”, I say silently to myself above the sound of the crackling fireplace, “I’ve finally gotten over you”.

I head back to my desk, open up my laptop, and begin to take an unwanted but highly necessary trip down memory lane. Looking back through some of my old stories, I notice an all too common theme. Girl meets boy, girl falls madly in love with boy, girl gets heartbroken by boy (if you’re wondering, “girl” in this context is most definitely me). I roll my eyes into the back of my head as I read the lines, “You were an angel and I was a wildfire; there’s no way I could ever have you”. Ironically enough, these stories are the ones I get the most money for writing. I scroll through the multitude of comments and roll my eyes again. God, these people really love watching “girl” get completely and utterly crushed by “boy”. I laugh to myself and think about how we all love a good tragic romance story as long as it’s not about us. If only someone had told “girl” a bit sooner that her choice in men was going to be the cause of her destruction.

I wish someone would have saved her.

I wish I would have saved her.

But what’s done is done, I suppose. Last I heard, “girl” is off somewhere writing sappy (and highly mediocre, if I do say so myself) love stories about her own experiences with the feeling. From what I’ve been told, she’s doing pretty well. I guess heartbreak stories love her just as much as she loves the thrill of being alone.

I shut my laptop with an intensity that stirs my cat sleeping cozily by the fire, and I put my head in my hands, thinking about what kind of writer I want to be now that I can no longer be the kind who’s in love. What am I going to write about now? If I take a happier, more adventurous route will I lose all of my loyal readers? What if they take one glance at this “new me” and decide they only like the grief-stricken, lovesick, dramatic version? Is my sadness my only true value in terms of being a successful writer? I look at the Starbucks logo glaring at me from the center of my hot cocoa mug and grimace, picturing myself at 58 years old giving double shots of espresso to people who have the kind of jobs I’d always longed for. Quickly shaking that ridiculous idea out of my head, I pick my pen up again, hold it in front of me, and begin to crack a smile. I start thinking about the freedom and the power I have to write anything, anything I want. My smile grows bigger as I realize my breakthrough.

Wow.

Just imagine all the things I can write, now that I’ve taken back the pen (my pen) that had been in that stupid boy’s hands for far too long. Who cares if I lose all my fans? At this point, if losing all of my fans means gaining my greatest fan of all, myself, then I’ll gladly hold the door open for them as they leave.

I twist my pen around in my fingers, place it onto the fresh page that seems to be glowing at me, and begin writing the greatest love story ever told; one that is sure to beat all of the ones I’ve written in the past.

“A Love Letter to Myself…”, I begin scribbling in the messy chicken scratch that barely passes as handwriting.

Who knows? Maybe this one will have a happy ending this time around.