23. “Go Through It”

23

"GO THROUGH IT"

GRIFFIN HOUSE

B efore I knew it, Wednesday arrived, and I was going to meet with Caleb. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I figured I might as well have an open mind. If it was someone that my dad thought could be helpful to me, then I was going to give it everything I had, and consider it a great opportunity to learn something from someone who was not only doing what I wanted to do, but had done it successfully .

My Dad had texted me a description that morning, so I knew who to look for. When I walked in, I saw an older gentleman with white, shoulder-length hair sitting at a table who kind of looked like one of the Beach Boys. He waved in my direction, so I walked over and sat down, swinging my backpack around to set it on the floor next to me.

Caleb reached across the table and shook my hand. "Paige. As you probably guessed, I'm Caleb. It's so nice to meet you. After hearing so much about you over the years of working with your dad. You are the apple of his eye if I can use such an antiquated phrase."

"Oh, believe me, I know. My dad is the best. I am really appreciative of him introducing us; he thinks very highly of you."

"The feeling is mutual. Now why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself, and let me get a better sense of who you are aside from the virtual saint your dad used to talk about, of course."

I went through the highlights of my life: the kids, the marriage, my career as a marketing writer, my kids going off to college. I very briefly touched on the divorce and capped it all off with the borderline unbelievable story of how I came to be sitting in a Florida library.

He took out a notebook and pen. "I'm going to write some things down if you don't mind." He tapped his pen on the blank page in front of him. "You've had a very full life so far. Why don't you tell me what you've been working on."

I shifted in my seat and fiddled with the pen I'd set on the table in front of me. "That's where it gets a little sticky. I'm not really sure. I've started two novels before this one and got to about five thousand words written for each before I lost interest. I don't know… I would just start over with another idea that felt half-baked, and I didn't really connect with it, even though it seemed like it would be something someone would like to read."

"And what are you working on now?" Caleb bent over his notebook to jot something down.

"I am working on my third story, and it's more of the same. I just sit in front of my computer and that damn cursor just blinks at me. I can hear it in my head. ‘You're failing.' ‘You're failing.' ‘You're failing.'"

"First of all, let me stop you right there. Not getting words on the page is not failing. You just haven't found the story that you want to write. The one that keeps you up at night with characters that make their opinions about their next move known at the most inconvenient of times. There's nothing wrong with that. Many, many, many successful authors go through a phase where they start and stop numerous times before the one great story lands right in their lap."

I sat up abruptly and knocked my pen off the table. "Great. How do I make that happen? I'll do it." I bent over to pick up my pen, and blood rushed to my head.

Caleb chuckled at what must have been a beet-red face of wide-eyed desperation. "I'll be honest, you don't make it happen. It just happens, " he explained, then picked up his notebook and skimmed over what he'd written. "But, I think we could change the course of your writing by altering your perspective a bit. You said you get five thousand words in, and you aren't connecting with the story anymore, but you feel confident other people would want to read it?"

"Yes, I have this vision of women sitting around at a book club talking about my book. That's what I picture when I want to give up."

"Perfect. I know exactly where you need to start. Unfortunately, it's not going to be as easy as it sounds, but it's going to be a lot easier than what you're doing now. Instead of trying to think about a story that other people would want to read, why don't you think about a story you would want to read? Do you read a lot?"

"A lot is putting it mildly. I probably read at least one book per week."

"Okay, well, then we have a lot to work with. What kinds of books are you reading?"

"I'm a mood reader, so they're typically books that reflect where I am in my life. I mix in some mysteries and thrillers because I do like a little bit of excitement, but right now, they're all about women who are having some kind of struggle in their lives, and the path forward just opens up in front of her… or something like that."

"Those sound like perfect stories for you then, Paige. Why don't you do this: Build a main character you can identify with. Don't worry about your reader as much. Make it a story you want to read. Start with a short story about someone like you, someone who's going through some changes in her life and isn't really sure what she's going to do next. Give her a conflict, give her a way to resolve it, and then find your way there. Why don't we make it five thousand words, since that's where you seem to be stopping with other stories. See if you get to five thousand words and still feel a spark. If you can identify with this woman, you may instinctively know where her next steps should land. Give her some friends and family. People the reader can connect with. Make sense?"

I would like to say that at that moment, a story took shape in my mind. But it wasn't a magical library meeting room, and I wasn't a magical author. What I did feel was a little more sense of direction than I had that morning, and that felt pretty good. I was going to stop writing for those imagined book club readers and start writing for myself .

"So what do you think?" asked Caleb, breaking me out of my reverie. "You look like you're deep in thought."

"I have a pretty good idea of what I need to do next. This was so helpful. I didn't know what to expect, but everything you said made so much sense, and for the first time in a long time, I think I can make this work."

"I'm so happy to hear it. What do you think? When would you like to meet again?"

After a brief scuffle with my cell phone on its way out of my bag, I consulted my calendar and we agreed to meet at the same library in two weeks.

Caleb began packing up his things, but paused to look up at me. "Do you enjoy walking on the beach?"

For one brief moment I thought things were about to get weird, but he must have read the panic on my face because he quickly added, "Go sit by the water today. Spread a blanket out on the beach. Bring a couple bottles of water with you. Bring lunch, some snacks, and start looking at the people around you. Try to imagine what their stories are. See a family sitting there? Put a story together in your mind. If you see something interesting, write it down. Do that for a couple hours, and for the next couple of days, every time you go somewhere, make a point of really looking at the people surrounding you. Listen to conversations. Don't eavesdrop, necessarily—or at least don't be obvious about it." We both chuckled. "But if you happen to hear a word or two," he raised his hands in the universal ‘oh well' position, "try to put a story together in your mind based on that conversation. If you see someone sitting alone, ask yourself, ‘Who are they waiting for? What's their story?' You see what I'm getting at here?

"Stories don't come from thin air. They come from experiences, even if they're not our experiences. Put a story together you would want to read, something that would inspire you, something that would make you want to know the characters, maybe even be their friend."

My mouth said, "I can do that," while my brain grumbled,

Not this again.

"I know you can. Do you think two weeks will be enough?"

I wasn't sure if it would be enough, but I could feel something boiling up from the bottom of my belly. That old familiar feeling—hope—that had been having some trouble ignoring my internal naysayer. I couldn't wait to get started.

"I think two weeks will be plenty. I really appreciate this."

"You're very welcome." He slid his pen into his backpack and stood. I followed suit.

"I've got another meeting in about an hour, and I want to take a walk through the town, see what kind of people I can create stories for. I'll probably take a stroll past your uncle's shop. Their window displays are ingenious. I'll see you in two weeks, Paige." We shook hands briefly, and he clapped me on the shoulder like an old rugby teammate. "Say ‘Hi' to your dad for me, would ya? Tell him I'm expecting him to visit soon. I'd love to see your mom as well. She's a spitfire, that one," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

With that, he transferred his backpack from the table to his shoulder, turned, and left, leaving behind a glimmering trail of confidence.

As soon as I returned from the library, I inventoried the contents of the fridge. It was nice to once again feel the urge to cook something more than pasta and jarred marinara. I was enjoying getting my hands dirty and flour all over the kitchen. Making something that required at least an hour of clean up after all was said and done.

I planned out a few days' worth of meals for myself, and after I'd scheduled my Instacart order for later that afternoon,

What a time to be alive!

I decided to take Caleb's suggestion and head to the beach for some light stalking. When I arrived at Honeymoon Beach, it was packed.

What do all these people do for work that allows them to sit around at the beach all day on a Wednesday?

Up to that point, I had never really thought about the people around me being fodder for stories. But it seemed all you needed were some warm bodies and a little bit of creativity.

I plopped myself down in a four-by-four area of the sand, put on some sunscreen, and got to work observing. There was a family directly in front of me. Looked like a mom and a dad with two little kids. Mom sat in a low beach chair with her long, freckled legs stretched out in the shade of her umbrella and a book propped up in her hands. The dad was off to the side, building sand castles and making the kids run back and forth with buckets of water as he attempted to erect a masterpiece—or at least a masterpiece of a memory.

I started crafting a story about their lives.

Mom stays at home taking care of the kids while Dad travels for work. She's exhausted by the weekend, and Dad is kind enough to take over so his wife can take a break. He enjoys this time; he misses his kids so much while he's gone. But, he enjoys his sales job as well. The time apart during the week gives them a chance to miss each other. Their marriage is still fresh after five years, and they have a deep appreciation for the job the other is doing. He wishes he had more time to spend at home with his kids. She wishes she had more time alone. But they're making it work.

I wondered about the mom's dreams. Which ones kept her up at night after the kids had fallen asleep? What secret aspirations did she nurture, waiting for a time when the kids who need her so much during the day don't need her quite so much anymore?

I wanted to walk over and tell her to enjoy every moment while it lasted, but I knew it was a journey she needed to take on her own. The truth behind the old adage, ‘the days are long, but the years are short', doesn't reveal itself until those long days have already slipped through the short years and… gone .

Besides, I didn't want to interrupt her reading time. Those moments of peace are few and far between as a mom.

I turned my attention to the dad, still kneeling in the sand. His castle complete, he'd moved on to digging a moat to protect their lopsided labor of love.

I probably looked like an unhinged stalker, but at that point, I was in too deep to give up on their story. I started jotting down questions in my notebook.

Does he want something different for himself or his family? What if he were a secret agent during the week, following the world's bad guys around, trying to bring them down. Going home and playing the role of family man on the weekends. What kind of adventures would he go on? Where would his job take him? Does she know about his secret life?

Or is she just as much in the dark as the people he's chasing all over the planet?

Next, to unlock my final stalker badge, I sketched out a picture of the family.

Looking up from my notebook, I saw the mom set her book down on her lap, holding her place with an index finger. She pushed a red curl off her face, and as I studied her profile, I caught a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. I followed the direction of her gaze to discover a matching smile sent back her way by her husband. All was right in their world.

I got up, dusted myself off, and walked over to grab an ice cream cone from the vendor on the beach, an older woman with a voice that negated any need for a loudspeaker. She could have been Grace's sister.

My thoughts naturally turned to Grace. I marveled at how she could get the most out of every day. She could easily wallow in grief, having lost the love of her life, but from what I could see, she didn't. The Grace I saw was full of energy and a lust for life that felt like a distant memory to me, but I longed to emulate it.

The beach started to empty and my ice cream cone was long gone. I walked down to the water and rinsed off my hands and thought about how much fuller my life had become in a few weeks' time.

When I pulled into my uncle's driveway less than two months ago, my life had no real direction, and now I had several new possibilities before me. I didn't know which one was best, but a path forward was starting to take shape.

Realizing I needed to be home within the hour to collect the grocery order, I returned to the beach, wiped my saltwater-covered hands on my shorts, and picked up my beach bag. I was headed home to a future that was becoming less uncertain every day.