Page 1 of The Writer

ONE

My most recent mistake was thinking it was over.

It’s been, what, nine months since I last received a note? Maybe a year. And yet, as I stand in front of the narrow mail receptor in my apartment lobby, the cold seeping through the glass door against my back, I see it.

There’s no envelope or postmark, but it’s tucked inside my mail slot. An index card with a single number—10.

For a moment, I try to trick myself into thinking it’s nothing. Maybe it’s a flyer for a local business, a piece of junk mail intended for one of my neighbors. But the box was empty ten minutes ago when I ran out to get a morning coffee. I’m sure of it.

When I turn it over and see that familiar symbol—a black heart—I know it’s from him. Or her. Whoever has been taunting me for the past decade.

It’s intermittent, of course, which makes it scarier. Every time I think I’ve outrun the past, one of these little black hearts turns up, usually in far more peculiar places. In the bark of the tree outside my childhood home, black paint poisoning the wrinkled wood. In my ex-boyfriend’s car, alongside a pair of lacy underwear that didn’t belong to me. More than a year ago, whenI was working as a secretary at the MedSpa, I found one inside the front-desk tip jar, all the cash from that day stolen; I was fired that very same shift.

These hearts arrive when I least expect them, bringing chaos into my life. A message meant only for me, urging me to remember.

As if I could ever forget.

I look over my shoulder, frost turning into water droplets as the sun rises. There’s no one outside, no one watching. And yet, someone must always be watching. That’s the threat this flimsy piece of paper represents.

I crumple the card between my fingers, thundering up the stairwell. I close the door behind me, delighted by the clicks of the locks slamming into place. I’m safe here, unseen. Someone has been messing with me for years, but it’s just that. They never openly confront me, so I won’t give them the satisfaction of being scared now. I do what I’d intended on doing before I ran for coffee and checked the mailbox—settle up to the dining-room table, pull over my laptop and continue my morning writing session.

Not that I’ve had much success. For a writer, there’s nothing more terrifying than a blank page, and I’ve stared at this white abyss all morning, the cursor blinking at me, waiting.

Write something, it says.

Writeanything.

Man, you suck at this.

The most common question I get, on the rare occasion my hobby as a writer is mentioned, is: How do you come up with ideas?

People are hardly satisfied with my answer. I’m not even satisfied with it. Truthfully, I don’t know where I come up with my stories, but I know the repressed trauma from the past decade beats against my insides like a drum, and writing is theonly release. If I were to speak with a therapist, which I never have, he or she would likely point out a connection between my past and the dark subject matter.

Sometimes ideas flow freely, like a broken fire hydrant spewing creativity. My fingers can hardly keep up with the possibilities my brain rattles off. It’s like I’m transcribing a movie that exists only in my head, sharing it with the page, and then, hopefully, the world.

Other times, trying to find a winning storyline is like sifting through hay in search of a needle. Every idea falls flat, every plot used. Being a writer can be dull, lonely and downright depressing, especially when there’s no inspiration in sight.

It’s important to point out that although I’m a writer, inside and out, I’ve yet to be published. I’ve yet to earn more than a couple hundred bucks from my craft, and I spent them on drinks celebrating the mediocre achievement. That’s why I describe writing as a hobby. I’m doing everything right. Perfecting my skills. Allotting hours each day for projects. Sharing my progress with like-minded writers in my critique group, the Mystery Maidens. Years of trial and error—a much heavier emphasis on the error part—have brought me to this point.

I’ve completed an entire manuscript, and I’m even convinced it doesn’t suck.Night Beatis a psychological thriller about a crime reporter who suspects her lover is behind a string of homicides. It only took three months to write that book, and I spent another six months editing it. Now I’m hoping a literary agent will agree that it has potential and guide me through the intimidating world of publishing.

Maybe then, I’ll be able to call myself a writer without wincing.

None of that seems promising, however, as I stare at the blank page. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so many months focusing onNight Beatand nothing else. Maybe it’s becausenow all I can think about is one day receiving that phone call from a renowned agent who believes in my book, and more importantly, my abilities. Whatever the reason, I’ve not been able to write anything worth saving for weeks, and I’m starting to fear that even if I do luck out withNight Beat, my inability to generate new ideas will leave me a one-hit wonder.

And now, the black hearts are back.

It’s ironic, really, that I aim to write mysteries for a living, and yet I’ve never been able to solve this central one in my own life. I know what these hearts are supposed to represent. I just don’t understand what the sender wants me to do about it. Nothing can change the past.

My neck makes a satisfying crack as I roll my head from side to side. I exhale slowly, amazed at how I can be exhausted from doing absolutely nothing. Because I work nights at Mario’s Pizzeria across town, most of my writing sessions take place in the morning. It’s almost ten and I’ve yet to write a complete sentence. I walk into the kitchen and start the coffee machine, hoping a second serving of caffeine will provide some inspiration. It’s never as tasty as the boutique-made brew, but my budget can’t justify more than one order from the shop in a day. The machine drips steadily, and I wait, the scent of potent coffee beans decorating the air.

My phone buzzes on the counter. Lazily, I swipe at the screen, half-expecting a text message from one of my co-workers begging me to cover a shift. Instead, it’s an email from a literary agent I queried two months ago.

My heart starts beating faster, my mind going wild with possibilities. For a brief, wonderful moment, I imagine this is the YES I’ve been waiting for. Feelings of inadequacy and failure evaporate, even the anxiety from finding the black heart quiets, and all that matters in the entire world is this device in my hands, the opportunities it holds.

I open the email.

Dear Becca,

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