Opportunity is a Gift

“Make up your mind already.”

I was jarred back to reality by the Barista at my favorite coffee and donut shop. I had zoned out again.

“C’mon, you’ve been standing there for ten minutes. Can I just get you your Caramel Macchiato and Blueberry donut like usual?”

The Barista, Dylan, said from behind the counter. He was getting irate. He was one of three Barista's that usually worked when I came in for my morning blog sessions. All of them knew my order.

“Yeah, yeah sorry. I’ll just take the usual.” I quickly paid and walked to the end of the bar.

The day was a cloud. Days like that always made me feel gloomy, and no matter how much coffee I drank I just couldn’t wake up.

“Thanks.” I said drearily as I grabbed my breakfast.

“You know, you really should sleep at night. It helps with the whole being awake thing later in the day.” He remarked. I waved him off, and went to find a good seat. The café was practically empty, and I liked it that way. Less people meant less distraction.

I worked from my computer as a blogger, which meant I had the freedom to go wherever I wanted during the day.

This was where I went.

I pulled my small black notebook from my backpack and sat it next to my coffee. It kept all my jots from life. Sketches, notes from my literature and writing classes, phone numbers and memos. It's where I had started my first novel, which I was so close to finally finishing. I never left home without it.

I flipped to the bookmark I had labeled BLOG. My black book also had my work notes in it.

My work for the day consisted of finishing up a new post, doing some extra keyword research and proofreading.

An hour and a half later and about halfway through my second coffee, I finished up my work for the morning. I logged on to my PayPal account to see if the funds for my last sponsored post had gone through. That post was honestly how I was going to pay my credit card back for breakfast.

My heart started to beat uncontrollably.

“Holy sh-” I stopped myself mid sentence, covering my mouth with my hands. I started to choke on my donut and grabbed for my coffee to wash it down.

It just couldn’t be real.

I scrolled down to see what had happened, what mistake had been made. It had to have been a mistake.

No one should have deposited that amount of money into my account.

“Are you okay?” Dylan’s hand was on my shoulder. I was suddenly very aware of my open laptop blaring a giant $20,000 right across the screen.

I shut the computer, a little too fast, and nodded.

“Yep. Yes, I’m fine. I just seem to have forgotten how to eat, is all.”

He gave me a weird look, and headed back to his post. “Okay then.” He said over his shoulder.

I couldn’t open the computer again till I got home.

It felt like it was glued shut.

Part of me felt like if I opened it, the money would just be gone. And then everything, including my heart rate, would go back to normal.

But man… $20,000.

Nope, I said to myself, I’ve already decided that it was a mistake, and I am going to call the bank about it… now.

I stared at the small black screen lying in my hands.

What if I kept the money? I thought. What if I didn’t call the bank? What if the money was still just sitting there in my account, waiting to be spent?

My head was starting to hurt. I felt like I had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.

I decided to pry the computer back open to see if the money was still there, and why my life had suddenly changed overnight.

And there it was.

I clicked on the Payments received section to see who could have possibly made the mistake of sending that money to me. There was an email address I didn't recognize, and a note from the sender.

Dear Mallory, it was not a mistake.

I’m sure receiving this money seems out of nowhere, like it must have been some kind of accident. It wasn't. I’ve always admired and believed in your writing. You have a gift, and this is a gift to finally get you going in the right direction. Incentive, if you will, to free you from simply writing your blog, and get you into a book publishers office.

Take out that black book of yours, and write this down...

I stopped reading.

Whoever this was, they knew me. They knew my name, and about my book. They knew that I was a writer and that I blog for a living.

A friend? No, that's ridiculous, I thought. I didn't have rich friends.

What about a family member? Also none that were rich, and I hadn't gotten a phone call from my mom saying that anyone had died.

I had no clue.

“What great thing would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?” — Robert Schulle

Write that quote in your black book, and let it remind you that you cannot fail if you only try. You, my girl, are so capable of difficult things.

This money comes with strings attached. Don't go spend it on your rent, your apartment isn't worth it, dear. This is my investment in your writing career. Your chance to stop living the mundane life you have chosen for yourself, and publish that damn book. To be an author.

You have two years.

If I don't see your book on shelves within two years, I will repossess the funds given to you in full.

Get going.

Immediately, I recognized the sender.

No one else that I knew talked like an American Julie Andrews.

"But why, though?" I said out loud, re-reading Eleanor's letter.

Eleanor Ross had been my community college English and Literature teacher. She had a love/hate relationship with most of her students, but she was always my favorite teacher.

It could have been that I always got good grades in her class, or that she has such an elegant and confident air about her that I wanted to emulate.

It also could have been because she and my Grandmother had been best friends when they were young. And while I didn't know her well growing up, the fact that she loved my Gran like I did made me feel close to her.

All I had ever dreamed about, for as long as I can remember, was getting a book published. Seeing my name printed along the bottom of a book on the shelves of my favorite bookstore.

I got to work.

As I finished writing my first novel, I kept my little black book with me. I always started my writing sessions with it in hand, and transferred my notes into my laptop first thing each morning.

My days from then on out were filled with coffee and early mornings wrapping up the ending of my manuscript. I started scheduling meetings with publishers, agents, editors and friends to read and reread everything I wrote.

Two years later, I was the author of a real book.

Publishing it had been a journey of its own, and between that and the copious amounts of caffeine it takes to write and publish a book, I had spent every cent of the $20,000.

There were times when I was worried I wouldn't make my deadline. The fear of imminent failure, and having to pay the $20,000 back to Eleanor completely terrified me.

But, I knew my words were something the world needed. That is what pushed me forward, past my anxieties and all my self doubt.

When my book was finally published, I made sure my favorite local bookstore had received a good amount of copies. I went in to check and see if they had put my book on the shelves, and the store manager recognized my picture from the inside jacket. He asked me if I would do a reading.

The day shone with possibility.

It was bright, cloud free and perfect weather the morning of my reading. I walked into the bookstore and grabbed a coffee and a cup of water, found where I would be reading, and stood behind the wooden podium.

It felt surreal.

All I could think was,

I actually did it.

The book in my hands felt like a galaxy, contained by a dark cover and hard spine. The words were mine, but the day felt like it was missing something, someone.

I owed so much to that morning in the café, to Eleanor.

A crowd slowly poured into my little corner of the store, most had books and coffee in hand, and curious, anxious eyes waiting for me to speak.

I started to explain why I wrote my book, what inspired me to bleed onto the pages. And then, one more soul drifted into the crowd.

There was nothing missing from that day.

The words came easily, and my voice never shook for one minute. Reading that book, my book, to a small group of people on a Saturday morning was everything.

After I concluded the reading, Eleanor made her way to me, holding her own copy of my little masterpiece in her hands.

"I'm so proud of you, Mallory. You took a chance on yourself, and created something magnificent."

I gave her a hug, and told her about everything that had happened over the past two years. I thanked her for her gift, and for everything she had done for me. She told me how proud my Gran would have been.

"Before I leave," she said as she searched her purse. "I need a signature from the author." Eleanor handed me her copy and a pen.

I smiled. "That is the very least I could do."

Eleanor left, and I wasn't sure if I would see her again. There was just something about her, where you never could be sure.

I hoped after all she had done, that she knew how much her gift had meant to me. It changed my life, and I'd never be able to repay her.

Thank you for believing in me, and helping to make my dream a reality.