Chapter 19
I was sitting on the porch with a nice mug of tea on a crisp morning. I was surrounded by the tranquil hum of the forest, only infrequently interrupted by the rustle of leaves in the breeze or the chirp of a bird. I experienced a wobbly sensation of serenity for the first time in years, like a glass that is just barely unbroken and perched on a table’s edge.
I could still see the text message from the unidentified number, looming slightly over my mind. The words wouldn’t let go, even though I sought to brush it off as simply another attempt to
intimidate me.
“You can’t hide forever, but you can run.”
They wanted me to feel like they were watching me, wherever they were. At risk. However, I
refused to let them prevail.
I looked at my phone, hesitating whether to check my messages again or turn it off completely 1 elected to open my email instead. I discovered a surprise name in my email there.
“Subject: Ellen Sinclair’s Long Time No See”
My heart skipped a beat. Ellen, a natural force who had faith in me even when I didn’t believe in myself, had been my writing mentor during my time in college. She was the driving force behind
first collection of short stories, which I had put a lot of effort into but never completed
my
After hesitating, I clicked on the email.
“Nora,
I read your essay, ‘Finding Freedom,” in the magazine. It reminds me of the spark you had in
college and is superbly written. Have you considered continuing your short story writing where
you left off?
Give me a call if you want to talk. I’d really like to catch up.
Her signature appeared beside the phone number: Ellen Sinclair, Professor Emerita.
I just stared at the screen for a moment. Ellen’s email reminded me of an aspect of myself that I hadn’t contemplated in years, and it seemed like a lifeline.
I gave her a call that afternoon.
She replied, “Ellen Sinclair,” in a voice as gentle and authoritative as I remembered.
With reluctance, I said, “It’s Nora.”
“Nora!” she shouted out. “I hoped you would give me a call. How are you?
I answered, “I’m figuring things out,” not knowing how to sum up what had transpired. “I was
surprised to receive your email.”
She laughed and continued, “Well, I’m glad it did.” “Your essay was excellent. It reminded me of the stories you used to write because of its unadorned honesty. I hope you have continued to
write
The truth stopped in my throat as I paused. “Not at all. I suppose life got in the way.
With a stern tone, Ellen stated, “Life always gets in the way” “Learning to write through it is the
trick.”
Her words, loaded with truth, remained in the atmosphere.
I mumbled, “Perhaps it’s time I gave it another go.
“All right,” she said. “Begin with what you already know. Make use of your gorgeous mess of a
life; it’s the best resource you’ll ever have.
I sat at my desk and stared at my laptop’s blank page following our call Expectantly, the cursor
flickered at me.
Ellen’s counsel kept replaying in my head. “Begin with what you already know
I pondered on the preceding several months, the decisions I had taken, and the sorrow and. liberation that came with parting ways with Liam The words came out slowly.
I wrote about rediscovering, love, grief, and the strength required to start afresh. I wrote about the self I was learning to accept and the self I had lost along the way
Unbeknownst to me, hours went by as the page filled with bits and parts of my story.
The sun had already fallen when I finally reclined in my chair, and my shoulders hurt from
leaning over the computer. However, I felt lighter as though I had unearthed something that had been hidden for too long.
I gave Ellen another call the next day.
“I began writing,” I informed her.
“And?” she inquired, plainly excited.
I confessed, “It felt good.” “Better than I thought.”
“It did, of course,” she said. “Writing gives us a way to make sense of the chaos, which is its magic.
Her tone got serious as she stopped. “Hey, Nora. I know someone at a tiny press who is continuously hunting for fresh voices, if you’re serious about this. Tell me when you’re prepared to share.
The thought made my heart race. “I’m not sure if I’ve arrived yet.”
“Slow down,” Ellen encouraged. However, don’t allow fear to stop you. The entire world needs to hear what you have to say.
In the weeks that followed, my writing served as my fulcrum. I got up early every morning because I found that working in the silence before dawn was my favorite time of day. I put everything down, including my uncertainties, achievements, and periods of clarity and perplexity.
The project started to take shape, with each piece of writing combining to create a story that was both very personal and universal.
I felt a flicker of pride one evening as I went over what I had written, something I hadn’t
experienced in years.
This was my tale, as I intended it to be told. I had allowed Liam, Isabel, and even the version of
myself I believed I needed to be to define me for a very long time. But I was taking that authority
back now
The feeling of liberation was exhilarating.
Ellen sent me another email a few days later.
I’ve been thinking our chat, Nora, and I’d like to see what you’re working on. Send me a few pages, even if they are rough. I pledge to supply you with frank criticism.
My finger hovered over the reply button as I hesitated. It felt vulnerable to share my work, it was like removing a part of myself that I wasn’t sure I was ready to show.
However, I had faith in Ellen. Despite my lack of self–confidence, she had continuously been my best supporter.
With my heart racing as I hit submit, I added the first three chapters.
Her response arrived the next morning.
“Nora,
This is great. Honest, honest, and incredibly poignant. I can tell how much you’ve changed as a person and as a writer.
Continue. You’ve hit upon something special.
A faint smile pulled at the corners of my mouth as read her words again and again.
I felt like I was right where I should be for the first time in a long time.
