The Old Journal

I sat neglected and lonely on a basement shelf at Brooke's Book Nook for decades. I'm not sure how long, exactly. Before that, I assisted many authors, most recently one named Anne Rice. She was obscure until I gave her some ideas and helped her hone her skills. After Anne no longer needed me, she brought me to the shop and told Brooke, "Give this to a struggling author who shows promise. I'm trusting you to choose someone special... and don't charge anything."

Brooke said, "Very well, Ms. Rice, and thank you for the autographed copies of Feast of the Saints, and for signing my personal books of yours."

She stored me in a safe place, where I was forgotten on a shelf until December 23, 2022. Brooke lifted me up and said, "There you are,” as she dusted my worn cover.

She walked me up the steps and handed me to a man with gentle, well-manicured hands, still holding on.

She said, "I forgot all about this until I heard about Anne Rice's passing the day before yesterday." I could feel her reluctance to let me go. She continued, "If your daughter likes to write, this may be just the Christmas gift for her."

The man said, "This looks like a beautiful antique. I'll take it. What do I owe you?"

Brooke said, "It is yours to keep. Merry Christmas." She finally let me go. Then, she said, "Promise me one thing; if your daughter becomes famous, you will convince her to do a book signing here."

The man's chuckle was musical. "You have my word." He held me up. "Thank you, and Merry Christmas to you as well."

I was carried to his very fancy car and gently set on the leather passenger's seat. After 20 minutes, we pulled up to his very fancy home, and he took me inside. He told a lady in a black and white uniform, "Edith, I found this great gift for Janet." He held me out. "Will you please wrap it for me?"

"Certainly, Mr. Johnson." I was handed over, walked to another room, put in a box, and felt myself turned over and over as Edith wrapped me up.

Two days later, I heard a muffled, "Merry Christmas, Janet." Finally, I was taken out of the confining box.

Janet scrutinized me, flipping through my now empty pages. She asked (in what I perceived as a snide tone) "What is this? Some journal? It's not even new."

I heard Mr. Johnson say, with a wounded voice, "It's for your writing."

I was cast aside, among ornaments deemed unworthy of the tree. After a short pause, I heard a deep sigh. "I'm sorry. Thanks, Dad. I miss Mom so much on holidays."

"Me too, Sweetheart, but it's just you and me now. Come here."

I felt the couch shift. After a few seconds, he said, "Let's go have dinner at your grandma's."

"Okay, Dad. Let me go put this in my room."

Janet lifted me up and carried me away. When she got to her room, she opened my cover and wrote forcefully with a pen, "You suck. I wanted the latest Star-Raker video game" on my first page. She slammed my cover shut and left me in the dark.

After about two hours, I heard her voice in the distance, "Goodnight, Dad." The light came on. Janet lifted me up. She opened me up and gasped. I had replaced her words with, You call that writing? Try again.

She shut my cover. I heard her breathing deeply. Then, she opened me again to find a blank page. She whispered, "What the...?"

She threw me on the bed and stared at me like I was rotten food. A minute later, she grabbed her pen and wrote, "Once upon a time." Of course, nothing happened as she gaped at her words. Then, she finally figured out the trick and shut my cover.

When she opened me again, I had left her with one word, TRITE!

She wrote, "Who are you?"

I responded, Is that any way to start a story? Come on, give me more to work with.

She tried again.

How was the girl to know she was dead? Only yesterday, Tammy had been very much alive. She couldn't recall doing anything which would have caused her death, yet here she was, in a place that most certainly was not her bedroom.

I replied, Better, now be more descriptive about Tammy's current whereabouts.

Janet yawned and whispered, "Tomorrow." She set me down with much more care.

In the morning, Janet carried me into the dining room. I could smell her dad's coffee. She asked, "Dad, where did you buy this journal?"

"Why, is something wrong with it?"

"Um, no, I'm just curious."

"Well, if you must know, I got it at Brooke's Book Nook. The owner made me promise if you got famous, I would ask you to do a book signing there. Strange, huh? Not that you'd be famous, but that she thought to make such a request."

Janet laughed weakly. She said, "I am actually feeling inspired, so thanks again, Dad."

"I'm delighted that you're enjoying it."

Janet was very prolific the next few days. With my guidance, she had the makings of a bestseller. She was working on a sci fi tale called, "Tammy of the Night," about a young lady on a distant planet, who battled creatures by night and tried to avoid oppressive heat by day. More than once, she mumbled, "This is great!'

Then, things went sideways when she admitted aloud, "When I get rich and famous, I'm going to buy my own place far from here. No more sucking up to my cheap father. Maybe I'll find out where Mom and her new husband live."

I implored her, Write not for fame or fortune.

You write because you need to write, or because you hope someone will listen or because writing will mend something broken inside you or bring something back to life. - Joanne Harris

She yelled, "You think I'm going to take orders from some... crumby, old book?" She threw me on her floor.

That's when I erased all her words and ignored her pleas to put them back. I wouldn't respond to anything else she wrote either.

She got the ultimate revenge by throwing me into the electric fireplace and turning the heat all the way up.

It didn't hurt, but my final thought was, No more words.