Fan Letter

There was something about the way that she wrote that letter that made me stop in my tracks from the mailbox to my house. I was just about to pack it all in, to stop writing all together. The pain of never quite knowing what I’d have to do to write something to get noticed, to get published again, was eating away at me. Natalie. Her name is Natalie. How beautiful it is, the way it rolls off the tongue just so. She likes my work. Found it somewhere over across the pond, somewhere in America, a somewhere I know the exact address of because she wrote it here on the envelope. What an odd thing to do. To write something so personal, so vulnerable, on the front of an envelope, right there for all the world to see, but she must have left it there for me.

“I just wanted to let you know,” I read aloud, “that I couldn’t put your book down. I finished it in a day and I loved every second of it.” How lovely. She loves my book. My only book. Natalie, did you know your letter was going to save my life today? Pick me up from my failing career, if you could call it that. The mess that sits at the bottom of this massive, debt-ridden, rejection-noticed-filled-hole I’ve dug for myself, and it’s in this mess that I feel the snap. A snap, a moment of clarity where I suddenly know exactly what I need to do.

Did you know, Natalie, that you inspired me today?

I open the front door to my home, the little cottage in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere, England. It’s beautiful here, but just not my style anymore. I wanted to be somewhere where no one could find me, but people did somehow. Now, with all the notices about missed payments on my mortgage, how they’re about to send me packing, I figure I might as well move along myself. I have a place to go, I have a Natalie to see. I grab the biggest luggage I can find and throw all my clothes into it, which isn’t much, it’ll be fine, I’ll just buy more clothes when I get there. More room for the other things I can check on the plane. First edition copies of my one and only book. The book that was touted to be the next big thing that ended up flopping itself right into the clearance sections within weeks. Weeks. That’s all it took. A couple reviews that basically said it left them wanting, but didn’t read deep enough, not like my Natalie. She understands. She gets it. She gets me.

The plane ticket won’t be too much of a problem as I still have one credit card that works, and that’s all I need. Thankfully my passport won’t be an issue either, as I had renewed it in the hopes that my book tour would take me to places I only ever dreamed of. The only thing it ever brought me to was London, and after that review, most of my readings were cancelled or rescheduled indefinitely. Funny thing about critics, they really just hate themselves at the end of the day, right? Or at least that’s what he told me just before the knife slid between his ribs.

That’s the good thing about living in the middle of nowhere. One can come and go as they please without much interruption or interference. That critic buried my book in the depths of the five pound finds, so I buried him beneath a tree in the forest. I walk that path every day, just as a reminder that I’m in charge of my own life and that he can never again say another terrible word to do anything to hurt me again. Maybe that’s where the writer’s block began. With his words. Then over the last few months, anything I type tends to be something involving that. Murder. Critics. Woods. I can’t let myself write anything of the sort. Not while I’m here, at least, and not while they still write about his sudden disappearance in the newspapers. It’s almost like he’s haunting me, chiding me into writing my confession.

Not today, Brad. Today, I must go find my Natalie.

The airport is busy. Busy enough that I blend in with the crowd so I find a comfortable spot near the window of my gate as I wait for the calls to board. The coffee I bought in the lobby is hot and sweet, perfect for another read through Natalie’s letter.

“You’ve inspired me to write again. I never thought I could do anything like that, but there was something about your story that moved me to try.” That’s just how I felt after reading the last book my favorite author wrote. I remember him, standing there tall and proud, as he read aloud from the pages of his book before him. It was beautiful. The words sounded just the same coming from him, as I heard them in my head. When I asked him if he wanted to get coffee after the event, he finished signing my book and politely declined. All I wanted was a little bit of his time and attention, maybe even to read the first chapter of the book that you so love, Natalie. But he couldn’t even do that for me. His biggest fan. The one with every single book of his on my shelves.

He was alone when I found him after. It wasn’t as hard to stuff him into the boot of my car like I thought it would be. It was quite easy once he succumbed to the rather pointed knock on the head with my tire iron. I might have gone a bit too hard, but this was all in the name of my career, and it was necessary at the time. By the time we had gotten to my home, it was too late. Brad rests next to him in the wood, and the amount of scrubbing it took to get all that blood out of the fabric...I don’t even want to think about it now.

Not now, when I have you, Natalie. When I’m on my way out to you. I can’t wait to talk more about my book. To see you in person, hear your voice, smell your skin, touch your hair, the angel that saved me. I do hope you really liked it as much as you said.