Jo wanted nothing more in the world than to be completely
and obliviously drunk right now. She was daydreaming about the taste and feel
of a smooth, ice-cold beer. She could almost feel the fizzy burn as it slid
down her throat. In fact, if it weren’t for being on the train, she suspected
that’s exactly what she’d be-- blotto. She couldn’t remember exactly what state
they were in right now, but she did clearly remember the feminine intercom
voice reminding them that the lounge car of the California Zephyr would be
closed for the duration of their travel through this state. Liquor sales were
not permitted here on Sundays. They would be certain to notify the passengers
once the lounge car could reopen, and they appreciated their understanding.
The baby in the roomette on the other side of the narrow,
swaying aisle was screaming again. Normally crying children didn’t bother her;
if she had a superpower, it was being able to not lose her shit around a
wailing baby. Jo was no stranger to crying children; she’d had two squalling
infants of her own, back in the day, and had never had a problem with turning
the volume down in her mind when things were getting out-of-control. Yet, this
child, this baby girl—if she remembered correctly—was more than crying. She was
a shrieker, and her high pitched utterances were unraveling what remained of
Jo’s frayed nerves.
Jo suddenly sat upright, gathered herself, and tugged her
black tee-shirt down over her head and her white tank top. She pulled her auburn
hair into a loose ponytail with the rubber band on her right wrist. She quickly
pulled on her black boots, and made sure her messenger bag and carryon were
secured under her seat. It was certainly time for a walk; she’d been half
sitting, half lounging in the reclining seat of her roomette, letting the
train’s sway on the tracks lull her into a less-than-productive reverie.
Walking was what she needed. Get away from the baby, and maybe grab a cigarette
on the observation deck of the back car.
Most people wouldn’t choose to ride the train, but it was
the mode of transportation that Jo preferred, next to boats. She hated planes
with a fiery passion. Hell, she’d had more problems with air travel than any
girl deserved. Cars and interstate traffic worked on her nerves until she was likely
to have an anxiety attack. Trains were safe, calming, and the views of what
seemed like a long-forgotten countryside had always inspired her creativity.
Well, until this trip, that is.
Even though Jo had to pay attention to both her balance and
where she was going while walking on the train, the feelings of despair easily
settled into her conscious mind. This trip had been a complete failure. No, it
was even worse than that. The past week had, by far, been the worst week of her
life. She was ashamed. She was guilt-ridden. And, she was secretly, silently
grieving.
Jo had no written words, no great idea for the second novel,
no outline, no nothing to show for her time away from home. What she did have
was a gaping hole left in her heart—a hole so large that it could swallow her
whole. A hole that no one else must ever suspect.
***
The first novel had been a success- despite everything Jo
had told herself over and over again while she was writing it. ‘You’re only
writing this for fun,” she said to herself. ‘Even if it gets published, you’ll
not make any money off it,’ she repeated again and again. It became her mantra.
‘The main thing is to prove to yourself that you can finish it,’ was the
biggest lie she told herself. The fact of the matter was there had to be
something more to show for it than just writing “Fini” on the last page. It
hadn’t been that much fun. If there wasn’t something to show for her hard work,
then why had she spent nights awake writing, only to get children up in
pre-dawn and get them ready to go to school, and then get herself and her
husband to work? Why else had she cussed at her laptop and occasionally screamed
at her husband and then cried after their arguments and ignored the daily tasks
that needed doing? Why else had she forced herself to write before and after
work hours and on weekends and even on holidays, unless it was leading to
something more?
Well, it had led to something more. Much, much more than
she’d ever imagined. The book sold to a decent publishing subsidiary, and after
a small but an amazingly successful hardback run, was put out in paperback.
That’s when a prominent New York Times Bestseller (she couldn’t think of him in
any other way than that—with capitalized title and all) had decided to write
about her little, inconsequential volume on their blog, and send the paperback
into two more printings. Then there were the book signing tours, and a five
minute interview on Ellen. Then there
were the two Hollywood studios who wanted to buy the option for the film rights.
The success had been enough for her husband Matt, and
herself to buy a house—one that they were actually pleased to live in, for a
change. The success had been enough to justify her quitting her decent paying
job with the good benefits to write, at home, full time. The success had been
enough for her editor and publisher to want to see a solid second novel from
her, and the sooner, the better.
Except that offer had been nearly a year ago, and there was
no second novel to speak of—much less a solid one. In fact, every time Jo
thought of the second novel in any capacity—whether it be an honest effort to
create something or as a passing fit of guilt—she felt that next story slipping
further and further out to sea. Whatever the hell that next story was.
That had been the whole point of this trip: a writer’s
retreat. Two weeks in a small cabin surrounded by woods. No internet, no
laundry, no diversions, no kids to distract from finding her story, her
creativity, herself, again. She’d booked rail fare, reserved the small cabin
that only offered network television, a claw-foot tub, and a small kitchenette
as amenities, and packed her laptop and her favorite pair of jeans. Matt had
coordinated the children’s schedules with her in the days before she left, and
she’d gone, with no agenda other than to find something, anything, which would
warrant being committed to the page.
The cabin itself was at Indian Point, situated within the
Ozarks, surrounded by blackjack oak and nestled against the shores of Table
Rock Lake. It was one of her favorite places in the world; a place her parents
would bring her when she was a child. One could hike in the woods along maintained
dirt paths, or fish for bass. There was horseback riding for the more
adventurous, and almost everyone would find themselves in the cold lake during
the heat of summer. In fact, the cabin was only about 80 miles away from her
small hometown, but she’d no intention of returning there. She hadn’t really
been back in the last 15 years, and Jo didn’t see any damn reason to change her
trajectory now.
It had taken the train nearly a day to get to the depot
where she rented a car to drive the rest of the way. Jo hadn’t really expected
to receive her grand revelation on the train ride there, but was slightly
disappointed when it didn’t happen, nonetheless. She’d found her mind
frustratingly blank during the trip, and the hours on the train had passed at a
snail’s pace. The drive to the cabin on two lane highways was as nearly as
uneventful as the train had been. Checking in, grabbing provisions, and
settling in had taken the remainder of the second day and evening. Yet, she had
fully expected to get straight to work on the third morning.
Instead, she’d stared at the blank page of her journal—Jo
carried a small notebook with her everywhere she went and a ready supply of
purple RSVP Pentels, always prepared to jot down whatever may pop in her
mind—for more than an hour. Then, in hopes of switching up the flow, she’d
powered up her laptop, and stared at the cursor on a blank Word document for
another hour or so. She finally gave up for the day, exchanged her yoga pants
for jeans and boots, and went outside amongst the trees to scream out her
defeat.
No comments:
Post a Comment