He dares me to leave.
In the photo, my friend Ed—another writer, further along in this journey but just as challenged by the demanding dictates of a daring life—sits in front of the exit door of the restaurant. A bear of a man, I sense the threat behind his posture but cannot articulate it.
When I view the iPhone photo, I understand.
His stance is a silent challenge to me. His eyes match the posture as if to say, “walk away from this writing life, Melanie, do it. Now. I dare you.”
Smart man, this fella is. Because he knows me well enough to know that I won’t. I can’t.
Ed knows my story.
A number of years ago, an eerie voice–ghost-like, insistent–awakened me and sketched out the full plot of a novel. The smoky baritones of a male detailed instructions about how this novel would launch a four-part book series. He—It?—outlined precise items such as the protagonist, her antagonist, and supporting characters along with plot twists, story climax and resolution.
“And you—you’re the one who’s going to write this quadrilogy,” the voice accented the last word as if to get my attention even more than it already had. “Look it up when you wake up in the morning.”
In a soft whisper so as not to disturb my sleeping husband next to me, I addressed the cool darkness that surrounded me, “OK, fine, you crazy man-voice, I’ll do just that—write your book, this four-parter. Sure, whatever, old guy.”
I turned out the light, rolled over, and returned to a rare, hard sleep.
When I awoke, the notes lay there immediately next to my stretched-out hands. I did not remember placing them on the nightstand so close to my bed. The notes I had written rambled cross-wise across several pages of my journal, each side of paper, filled with line after crooked blue line of nearly-illegible pen scratches. That’s what happens when you wake up a menopausal woman at 4:07 in the morning and order her to do your bidding.
Suddenly, I remembered. I rushed to the computer to look up the word “quadrilogy.” But Wikipedia didn’t describe a series of novels. It referenced the term in connection with the movie series, “Alien” and “Die Hard.” Now that clears up things, I thought.
Seven-plus years later, I still reference the notes scribbled from that long ago morning. The pages are faded, folded, and filthy now. They travel with me like they’re an active part of my life. Because they are. They’re part of why I can’t walk out the door that looms, with Ed, in the picture. It’s like the two of them—man and door—have teamed up in a strong and silent double dare.
I look again at the picture. For the first time, I spot the “Exit” sign hanging behind and over Ed’s head.
“Go ahead and leave, walk out,” the stance of the three—Ed, door, sign—seems to speak in silent unison. “But we’ll be back. In the morning, 4:07.”
With one final, lengthy glance at the photo, I throw up my hands.
“Got it, guys,” I whisper back to the trio. “No more wake-ups, no more excuses. I write today. Every day. Somehow, I make it happen.”
No quitting. No leaving. No walking out.
Dammit.
Nice work! Here’s my riposte.
—Ed
I thank the both of you for your very inspirational words!
This is so great….save these somewhere, somehow for your next book on the writing life.
At some point I would like you to set up a feed column so that I can subscribe to your blog. You go girl!