A Pocket Archive (32)
I felt my phone vibrate against my hip as I stepped out of the elevator. Pulling it out of my pocket, I paused long enough to flick my thumb across the screen just in time to see my friend's name disappearing from the rainbow-rimmed text banner.
Finally!
I punched in my passcode, eager to see what feedback he'd have this time. A message was waiting for me on the screen:
"1 - dude just send me a pdf next time
2 - fuck you for making me cry in a coffee shop
3- you should really start submitting to journals and magazines"
I smiled, chewing my bottom lip, then my fingers flew across the screen in response as I sent my reply:
"Is it that good or are you trying to make me happy?"
A moment later, there was another soft ping.
"As someone once said to me, 'I don't care enough about you to lie to you.' For real. I dunno, New Yorker or First Things are where I read most short fiction but I'm sure there's a million literary journals you could submit to."
I felt a familiar golden happiness well up inside me and I sent a quick reply back. He certainly had a good memory.
Perhaps it was just imposter syndrome, but part of me was always was afraid my writing still wasn't up to par, depite that I knew I had a unique knack for it (at least academically) and a measurable track record to prove it. It was good to hear it praised almost unanimously in my circles, but also to know I could receive sincere, trustworth feedback from writers and friends whenever something needed tweaking. More importantly, I was beginning to realize that no matter how insignificant sharing my work could feel, it truly mattered. It was the only way to change anything. Writing was something I was always meant to do, and nothing in the world was going to stop me.
I settled at a desk near the window and plopped my laptop onto the table. A cardinal flitted past the glass and I watched it settle onto a nearby branch as I popped in my headphones and opened my Spotify, queuing up one of my classical playlists.
This wasn't the story I thought I would be writing (though I am also working on my fantasy novel more seriously now), but it was certainly one that needed to be told, and I had every intention of sharing it with absolutely everyone that I could. At this point, my sword was sharp and I had all my material preserved and ready to go; all that needed done now was to finish putting words to paper, then I would submit it for final editing and publication.
I right clicked on my mouse and opened the transcripts again, then stretched and popped my knuckles over my head before taking a sip of my mocha, feeling that my calling had never been clearer. Locked and loaded, I opened Scrivener and resumed where I'd stopped on Chapter 16.
"I've done enough running from monsters. It's time to do some chasing." -Noah Schnapp
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