Out of the Dust

I glanced over at my alarm and thought: how inconvenient.

A muffled ruckus from the attic echoed inside my bedroom. With lazy feet, I slid on my slippers and made my way to the hall closet to retrieve the flashlight.

When I pulled down the attic door within the garage and cast the light above me, I braced myself for an enormous opossum to come racing down the stairs. When nothing emerged, I awkwardly climbed the ladder with one arm, wondering briefly if pest control had 24-hour service.

Upon entering the musty interior of the attic, I sighed with relief after I flipped the light switch and saw only stacks of boxes from my youth. I slowly maneuvered my way through the half-lit maze of my past and praised God nothing jumped out to startle me.

I was just about to return to my cozy bed when I noticed a box labeled “Ash’s Stories” in black Sharpie was wide open. I cringed to think of rat feces all over my teenage dreams, but what did it matter now? I hadn’t written anything worthwhile in years save for my cousin’s wedding vows. Even if I was rusty, I was still “the best writer in the family” and “a hopeless romantic at that.”

I peeked inside the old musty box only to find regret as I pulled out a flimsy composition book and beheld it with repressed longing. The pages were worn, but I could still decipher Eternal Spring by Ashleigh Wright in the header. This was supposed to be my very first novel, a historical romance that once had the potential to make any publisher swoon—or so I used to dream. Now it was hard to imagine the gallant Miles McMillan and enchanting Julia Thornton ever waltzing onto the New York Times bestseller list.

For seventeen years, this box remained out of sight because I had allowed self-sabotage, heartbreak, and an unsatisfying job to rule like villains from my many unfinished works. Deep down, I wanted nothing more than to resurrect the characters I had put to rest all those years ago. But I was no longer fifteen. I was thirty-two and more afraid to face a blank page than whatever was hiding in my attic.

Then I remembered why I was here in the first place.

“Come out!” I shouted with surprising authority, hoping to scare whatever creature inhabited this shadowed sanctum.

I soon gave up after seeing nothing else out of the ordinary. But just before I could return my once-prized possession into its cardboard coffin, a hand ever so slightly touched my shoulder.

A scream filled the room, and I realized it was mine. Both notebook and flashlight immediately dropped to the ground as I turned to gaze upon a startling figure that was far from any sort of animal.

“M-M-Miles McMillian?” I stammered disbelievingly while staring into a vaguely familiar pair of eyes.

But there was no denying it. The tall gentleman who stood before me was none other than the hero from my book that was now crumpled on the floor.

“Miss Wright,” he answered gruffly as if attic dust tickled his throat.

And no doubt it did. Instead of a sophisticated dark green waistcoat and black breeches, he was covered head to toe in dust like he had been living inside a vacuum cleaner rather than a book.

“Impossible! What happened to you?” I asked, my mind delirious.

He coughed and a cloud of dust blew out of soot-colored lips. “I got tired of waiting.”

I blinked twice. Surely, I was dreaming.

He glanced around the attic. I thought he wished to inspect his odd surroundings until he pulled an object from the box, then moved toward me with a black ink pen securely in his grip. His green eyes bored into mine with intention—or was it vengeance? I didn’t have time to guess before he shoved his ashen face close to mine and held up the pen between us.

“And I’m not waiting any longer,” he said determinedly. 

The closer I looked, the more I realized the character I had known for so long was still just a draft that so desperately wanted to be complete. With a deep breath, I courageously took the pen from his hand.

***

Miles followed me down the ladder and into my living room, leaving a trail of dust the whole way. I sat down at the antique writing desk I had purchased mainly for looks and offered him a seat on the pin-striped sofa. He made himself comfortable, pushing his coattails out of the way while I tentatively opened the pages of my unfinished novel. With a working ink pen, I prepared myself to write. But his intense gaze distracted me.

“Ah, could you perhaps wait in another room?” I asked, hoping for a bit of privacy. “This is going to take some time.”

“As I recall, you’ve had enough time.” For the first time tonight, I noticed his British accent sounded slightly more American.

I scrunched my nose at him. “Where are your manners?”

He crossed his arms. “Forgive me, I suppose the past seventeen years have turned my heart to stone."

I couldn’t blame him. The poor fellow was hurting!

He then asked, “May I inquire as to why you stopped writing in the first place?”

“Doubt,” I said simply, even though it was much more complicated than that. 

He responded softly, “That doesn’t have to be the end of your own story, you know.”

I tried to agree as I strode into the kitchen in search of a broom and a dustpan.

***

“OK, let’s see what I’m working with here,” I said while I began to reveal the man beneath the dust.

I couldn’t help but laugh when I noticed Miles’s ensemble looked more like a Halloween costume than that of a historically accurate 19th-century gentleman. I guess fifteen-year-old me did the best she could.

But my disappointment returned when I realized that my memory of him had faded considerably over time, and he had suffered for it. His skin looked unnaturally fair, and his normally tousled russet locks were flat. His moss-colored eyes had always seemed much more luminous in my head, but now they appeared rather dull. Still, I could so easily see why his arresting features made his love interest swoon—and had once set my own fifteen-year-old heart aflutter.

“And Julia?” I wondered curiously.

“Enjoying tea with my sister. I assured them I wouldn’t be long.” He narrowed his eyes.

The pressure was on. When I attempted to put words on the paper, Miles hovered over my shoulder.

“Is that really how you want to write it?” he asked.

“Are you seriously critiquing me?”

“I think I know my story better than you do.”

“Ugh!” I shot up from the chair, tears now falling uncontrollably down my cheeks. “I’m soooo sorry!” How could I ever forgive myself for sending my beloved character to a dusty grave?

He held my face in his hands, mixing warm tears with upswept dust. “I forgive you, Ashleigh. Please don’t ever stop writing.”

“But it’s been so long since I’ve written this story… and all the others.”

He frowned. “Others?”

Voices suddenly rang out, and we followed the sounds back to the attic. As both of us reached the top, we found ourselves surrounded by every single character I had ever created. Heroes embraced their heroines protectively, villains held up their weapons, and secondary characters banded together—all impatiently waiting their rightfully deserved endings.

Miles leaned over and whispered, “Let the writing commence.”

***

“All right! Go home—all of you. Shoo!” I waved toward the box full of notebooks, wanting to cower from such a daunting task. “And that goes for you too!” I jabbed a finger at Miles’s top hat.

“I’ll have you know that I have not spent the last seventeen years in that blasted box for nothing!”

“A true gentleman does not curse in front of a lady. Didn’t I write you better than that?”

Before he could respond, Louisa Ashgrove, a spoiled heroine from one of my Gothic novels, protested, “I say! When are we leaving this dreadful place? The dust is ruining my gown.” Her maidservant, Gayle, promptly inspected the dirty hem.

The rest began to murmur similar complaints.

“Silence!” Miles shouted above the mob. “We shall all go downstairs while we await our respective endings.”

“You’re not the author,” I spoke angrily. “Now you get back in that box!”

“Why?” he shot back. “So we can all spend another seventeen years coughing up dust?”

“Do you know how long it takes to write a novel? Months, years even!”

“Then what have you been doing all those sleepless nights?”

“Not writing...” I answered like a sulking child. With a defeated sigh, I waved the restless crowd toward the open door. “Single file, please.”

***

A part of me wished there had been a nocturnal animal lurking inside my attic. As I led my entourage of characters inside the living room, I felt overwhelmed, especially when the grandfather clock in the corner rang three chimes.

Miles caught me rubbing my eyes and excused himself from Julia, who had finally stepped out of the pages to see what all the fuss was about. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.

“I can’t do this. I used to know every one of you like the back of my hand, but now you’re all strangers to me.”

“That’s not true. Even when I was shrouded in dust, you recognized me.”

I looked up at Julia, whose lovely aura was still intact. Unable to hold her friendly turquoise gaze, I turned back to the empty page in front of me.

Miles lifted my chin and spoke encouragingly, “It’s never too late.”

“But where do I begin?” I answered helplessly.

“Just pick up where you left off.” He shrugged as if writing novels was like riding one of his thoroughbreds.

“You don’t understand. I’m not in the same state of mind I once was.”

Tired of my excuses, he pointed to the book. “How much is left?”

“Fortunately, only a few scenes. I used to stay up on a lot of school nights just for you.”

“And you never finished?”

“I kept getting distracted by ideas. I guess I’m much better at starting than finishing, huh?”

“You don’t say,” he answered flatly, flicking off a speck of dust I had missed on his cleft chin. He seemed to regret his negative attitude and made up for it by gently patting my shoulder. “I believe in you.”

Please, Lord, help me to believe.

Taking a gulp of fresh air, I lifted my pen like a sword and began the once simple task of putting words in front of the other. It felt forced at first, but words were soon sprouting onto the page like daises in fresh soil. With each sentence, Miles was gradually becoming more real to me than ever before. I asked him his favorite hobbies, what he disliked about his siblings, what he planned to buy Julia for her birthday—all in an attempt to know my character from the inside out.

By 4:15 a.m., I was barely scribbling the last sentence onto the page—and at one point trying to stop the fearsome Jack Cromby from kidnapping Julia. My head eventually hit the notebook, and I was falling asleep when Miles pulled the pages out from her under my stiff elbows.

“Something is missing.”

“Here, you fix it,” I groaned, handing him the pen because I was too tired to argue—or lift my head.

I jolted awake when he placed the pen back into my grasp and covered his solid hand atop my own. As creator and creation wrote together in one accord, I came to realize this story was much more than a tender romance. And I knew that seventeen years of real-life experience could only offer such depth.

Satisfied with the revised ending, Miles embraced me despite my sluggish state. “I am eternally grateful, Miss Wright.” His gloriously green orbs beheld my sleep-deprived hazels with pride.

I was happily surprised to find those teenage butterflies could still flutter. They quickly settled when I glanced back at my crowded living room and realized I had a long way to go. Only this time, a wondrous light beamed at the end of my writing journey instead of a dead end.

“It’s time you went home, my good sir.” I knew he and Julia longed to return to their places at Foxhill. “It has been so lovely getting to know you… again.”

“Farewell,” Miles answered, sweeping off his hat and bowing graciously. “I expect to find myself less unkempt the next time we meet.”

I grinned confidently. “I look forward to writing your new wardrobe.”

Julia soon approached us. Tucking her arm beneath her lover’s, she whispered softly, “I thank you, Miss Wright, for helping my dear Miles feel more like himself again. I’m afraid he was becoming rather unruly.”

The reformed Miles pressed his lips against a loose curl that had fallen out of place on her forehead, and I couldn’t help but blush. His eyes thanked me a final time before following Julia back into the redeemed notebook.

I checked the clock. Brass hands pointed at 6:27 a.m.—an all-nighter! But I couldn’t go to sleep now, I admonished. Not when my creative muses still had so much to say. 

Oblivious to the rising sun, I faced my awaiting frenzy with newfound strength. “Who’s next?”