Laying in bed, late at night, he told her out of nowhere, "You should start writing again."
She murmured her consent without really agreeing. "You know you're happier when you write" he continued. Not letting up, he pretended to ignore the fact she was silent. "Edit your book. Look for someone to publish it. Hell, write a new one. Just write."
Even though she didn't have much to say, she heard what he was saying. He is right. The only thing that makes her better is writing, and yes, she needs to be made better. No longer broken. Pick up the pieces, dust herself off and find out where she goes from here. Questions that can only be answered by delving into characters. Characters that she inevitably transfers part of herself into, but that are never quite her. Characters that have their own struggle, their own lives and that become as real to her as her friends. Yes, that does always make her better.
"I know you're probably hesitant to go back to your book and edit it. I know you don't want to be reminded of him, but maybe if you can close the character of Jake, you can close him as well."
Wanting this not to be true, she finally spoke up and said, "Oh, no, the two are very separate for me now. The character of Jake started because of him, but Jake is now Jake -- he doesn't remind me of him anymore." This was true. Jake is Jake. He became something that the person he was based on will never be. Jake came alive. She could picture his walk, she could hear his accent when he talked, she knew what he'd look like if she spied him standing across a field or riding a horse. No, the only reminder of 'him' that Jake provides, is that he would have never been created without the re-emergence of this person in her life.
Still, maybe closure is what she needs. Lizzie needed closure and Jake provided that when he came back to her. She wrote it that way because she knew that's what Lizzie would have needed, were she real. So why is this any different? Shaking her head to herself, she knew instinctively it was different because she was afraid to write. Afraid what would come out if she gave her keys freedom to type. Scared that she wouldn't like the parts of her that emerge as she tries to deal with what comes next. Writing is a form of honesty, one cannot lie if they do it right. Knowing that, she wondered how hard she'd have to fight with the part of herself that wanted to lie and the part that wanted to write.
"Are you listening?" he asked, as he nudged her gently.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, sorry. I'm listening. Maybe I'll write some tomorrow."
Tomorrow has come and gone and no, she didn't write anything. Still, she's thinking about writing and she suspects it won't be much longer now.
Love,
The Rambling Gypsy
