Only the Beginning

I've come to know I am a Writer. I have to write.

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I write poetry. And self-help books. And essays. One first draft novel. A few short stories. And in the past few weeks, a love story that I find, to my distinct surprise and pleasure, is writing itself. With the exception of my writing group, I'll be keeping this story under wraps until it's done, except for this brief beginning. I am posting these few paragraphs because I believe I am finally, truly, a writer--not the most talented writer on the planet, certainly not the most well trained and educated, but the stories I write are mine to tell in a way that only I--and not another soul--can.

Hammering My Way to the Queen City Prom

May 2007

Her first thought was “Never!”, this hysterical exclamation shouted in her head with a high heel thump, followed by a more reasoned, “No, No, No, it’s a joke”.

But there was the envelope, the kind usually reserved for international mail, with seven 39 cent stamps in the right hand corner, her wide scribbly name and address dead center, and a return address that stopped her cold. Cold as in frozen. Frozen as in hypothermia. Hypothermia as in chilling vulnerability.

The letter inside was written on eight pristine pieces of white linen paper, the handwriting less circular and more controlled, as though the writer was trying to reign in her thoughts by lassoing her words.

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Dear Lily,
For years I’ve thought about this letter. I owed you an explanation you never got and I will understand if you have no interest or need for one now. But I hope you will hear me out. I have been carrying these words for seven years now, and it is only because I because I may die that I find the need and the courage to tell you the truth.

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Lilly remembered the time she was hit in the face with a random soccer ball. It knocked her to the ground so fast it was minutes later before she felt the force of the impact. This is how she felt now, a full body reflex so sudden and violent she barely had time to feel the sucker punch, before she felt the rush of tears. She acted instinctively fast to protect the letter from getting irrepairably smudged, and that reflexive act was her second surprise.