Suspended Animation

Abby,

I owe you an apology. You’ve been waiting for months, possibly years, for me to finish your story. Who knows how time works for fictional characters? You don’t age unless I let you. You don’t move unless I tell you to.

I’m on the last chapter. We’re close.

Hold on. I need to plug in my laptop.

Okay. Where was I?

Right. You.

You’ve been so patient, and I hate leaving things unresolved after such an epic journey. Rest assured, I know exactly what happens after you walk into that room. I know what you say and how Eric responds. I know why you cry. I’ve always known.

Just a second. Bear has to go potty.

Wow, it’s hot outside! I should probably top off his water bowl, too.

When people ask about my novel, I tell them it’s about time travel, music, and impossible love. But really, it’s about healing. And healing takes time.

That’s my mom calling. Ten minutes, tops.

I swore I’d finish. And I will, Abby. Right after this work trip.

The scaffolding is all there. You’ve seen my process. Rolling revisions require focus and precision. I’ve just got to figure out how to get from A to B and make these final pages count. For both of us.

Ugh. I’ve really got to pee. Don’t go anywhere.

You’re the last thing I think about when the house goes quiet. And it means so much to me that you’ve stuck around.

No, I don’t want to install updates. Remind me later. Stupid computer.

Every time I think I’ll finally have a few uninterrupted hours, life has other plans. A family emergency. Car repairs. Illness. Now we’re down to one income. I can’t stop, Abby. The real world doesn’t have the luxury of waiting.

Yes, I’ve been writing on Vocal. Poems, essays, competition prompts. Anything to bring in a few extra bucks. But that doesn’t mean you’re not important.

I’m going to throw this load of clothes in the dryer real quick.

Even when the ending is completed, we’re still miles away from querying. Remember chapter nineteen? The one riddled with blanks and brackets? Your silence keeps me up at night.

That’s the doorbell. Probably a salesman, even though there’s clearly a “No Soliciting” sign posted right at eye-level.

This story is special. I believe wholeheartedly that one day the world will love you the way I already do. Let me craft the ending you deserve, not one written from exhaustion. If I force it now, it hurts you. Which also hurts me.

It’s hard to keep momentum with scenes that won’t leave me alone, then circle back days later and stitch it all together. I lose the details in translation. Tomorrow has become an awfully crowded place in my mind. Only those who’ve written a novel know how loud an unfinished one can be.

Great. We’re out of Tylenol. Maybe a cup of coffee will help this headache.

Look, I realize that I’m the only one who can fix this. I’m just tired. Not of you. Never of you. Will you tell the others I said that?

You’ve watched me change jobs, get married, sob over chapters that refused to cooperate, and celebrate the ones that finally did. Through you, I’ve asked the questions I’ve been carrying for decades. They would’ve sounded ridiculous coming from me, but in your voice they’re honest.

It’s just occurred to me that I’ve never thanked you for that. It’s wild how the people who never existed can occupy real places in your heart.

Are we out of tissues, too?

My husband says I’m stalling out of fear. And he may be right. Not because I don’t know how this story ends. Once it’s written, our conversations change forever. Finishing this story feels a little like saying goodbye.

Cards on the table, I miss you, Abby. I’m deeply, truly sorry that you’ve been waiting this long.

The dryer just buzzed, but I’ll be back soon.

I promise.

Laura