A Dream Come True

The cramps in my fingers and the endless sleepless nights of plotting and rewrites stare towards me where I stand at the end of the tunnel. The happily ever after. 

Years of writing in misplaced hours while the children played in the yard and Tim worked late, all come together, as the string of excuses as to why I am always so busy detangles. I finally have something to show for all of my work. 

I called my mother yesterday and she couldn’t wait to tell me how proud the women were at the diner when she and dad went for breakfast.

‘Well doesn’t that make it all worth it?’ I wanted to say but in true me fashion I shut my mouth and let her speak. Listened to excuses as to why she hadn’t actually read the book and how one of her friends' daughters just had twins and how she must be thrilled. 

I didn’t expect her to read it. I hadn’t honestly expected anyone to read it. It always felt like a dirty secret I held, my writing that is. Something you wished for in silence but never actually expected to come true. 

When I submitted the final draft of my manuscript I had to scrounge for the money to have it printed, as I waited for the divorce papers to fax from the machine beside it. It was like my two different lives clashing for the first moment and I couldn’t focus on any one emotion from either stack of paper. The moment dragged on as I sat on the plastic chair beside the machines with the nagging feeling that the duplicity of my life would forever be a state of chaos. 

Thinking back, there isn’t a moment when I celebrated. I got the call from the agency that the publisher had picked up the book after weeks of deliberation and even the excitement I had on the call felt forced. I don’t think my writing is bad, but I didn’t expect anyone to want to publish it, even sending it to an agent seemed a waste of time. 

That day was a blur. I hung up the call and the first thought I remember having was how I forgot to fill my prescription and now I would have to wait for the pharmacy to open tomorrow. I remember texting the sitter to ask him to stay late so I could drop by Melissa’s house and tell her the news, maybe have a glass of wine and catch up. I ended up coming home early when Jackson got sick and the sitter had to leave, his parents shooting me disapproving glances as they drove away.

It took me a week and a half to remember to tell someone. I was going to the launch party and the sitter was busy, Tim never ended up picking the kids up for his weekend, he was in Santa Barbara with his family, his new girlfriend Patty, and I once again was the one who was stuck. I called my mom in a rush and she had to stop me and ask twice about the release before I clued in that I should have told her. I just didn’t think of it. 

I never got the rush of relief, like I had finally sated what I had meant to do, the feeling of excitement and calm all at once that I would chase forever. 

While that is true, I can’t say that I’m not proud of myself because I am, but there was no ‘Ah-ha!’ moment when I could ride the high. Published or not, I still have debt, the kids are still pulling at my pant legs at every moment of my day, Tim is still gone. I spent years pushing my passion aside to do what I thought I wanted, start a family with a decent job and I thought everything would just fall together. 

After the divorce, I stopped writing. I’d like to say that there didn’t seem a point, but really I just didn’t have the time or money to waste hours on a fixation everyone told me was pointless. Today I thought I would laugh at all the people who doubted me but the laughter never came. 

Now the question is, when is the next book coming, and will anyone pay for the words I thought were so clever. Will this even mean anything? 

I don’t know what it means to be fulfilled I don’t believe. If I knew then I would have an answer as to why everything seems to still be in grayscale. I thought this would be the best day of my life, the same euphoria I felt when Maddie was born and for a second things felt like they might actually be alright.  

The truth is my life feels the same as it did yesterday and now all there's left is dread. The thing that keeps running through my mind is, what if I did it all wrong? What if this was supposed to happen years ago but it didn’t and now every day I will feel this same indifference to life as I did the last. 

The words churn in my head over and over, the ones I fit in my book and the ones that will forever float through my thoughts. I ask myself, will anyone understand the reference to the treehouse in chapter nine and how it connects the death of her son to the loss of her childhood. Does the love seem forced or will it read as sweet? Would it have been easier to cut her father out of the story to show the trauma of when he left or will the reader think the longer scenes are more impactful?

The words of the publishers saying everything will be fine and it will be a hit, do nothing to reassure me. I called Melissa yesterday after I put the kids to bed and she struggled to tell me she couldn’t make it past the halfway mark. I struggled to tell her that I didn’t mind and listened to the story of how she landed her latest role, some motherly character from a play I had never read. All the while I was rethinking the drafts and the things I could have added or moments that I always thought dragged but never got around to shortening.

Even now, the scene that haunts me still is the child's death, as the mother holds his fading body in her arms telling him to sing with her. I remember writing that scene and rewriting it for months before I could continue the story, I felt this urge that if this particular scene wasn’t written the novel would fall apart. The editor cut the scene in the first round of edits, said something about how it made the publishers uneasy and didn’t fit the rest of the book. I don’t even think I fought once. It took hours to write and seconds for the words to vanish from my iCloud. 

The silence of the small overcrowded room overtakes me and I try to remember the question. 

The man beside me clears his throat and I spot my editor motioning me from the meagre crowd. 

How do I feel about getting a publishing deal after so long?

In the front row, my mom is texting and whispering to my dad, as Maddie and Jackson elbow each other, starting to cause a scene. 

“It’s truly a once in a lifetime feeling. I’m so grateful for everything and I can’t wait for what comes next. Its a dream come true.” My grin is as hollow as the fading applause and the rush of blood in my ears blankets the room in silence. 

There are handshakes and congratulations, a few signatures, and the evening ends. I’m back home once more, staring into the dark, letting the coolness of the night wash over the room and waiting for tomorrow to come. 

I count the divets in the ceiling as if they were stars, letting my wishes fall on deaf ears, mourning every wish I made that led me to where I am and thanking them all the same. I count the seconds between each breath until I no longer remember how to inhale, and then count the seconds until my lungs start to burn.

I wonder what I would say to myself ten years ago? Twenty? When she asks about our dream will I tell her the truth or let her excitement dull through the years and keep my silence. 

Jackson wakes up crying from a nightmare and the rest of the night disappears with him in my arms and rain pattering at the window. 

Today becomes tomorrow and tomorrow yesterday until years go by and I can no longer pinpoint the feeling of that day, submitting my first draft. 

When people ask me what it felt like if I knew what was to come I simply smile and tell them I am thankful every day, that I could have never dreamed of the life I grew to have. 

The world will continue to spin and I will be here still, my arms outstretched for an embrace that I will never receive. The ache of every second that drips away chases the tears and fills my heart one by one until it overflows and I remember how it feels to be a part of the picture of my own life instead of sewn into the negative space.