The Writer
Postcards from Paris Book One
by
Rebekah Dodson
Version 1.1
Book I: The Writer
Book II: The Runaway
Book III: The Dependent
Book IV: The Independent
Book V: The Choice
Book VI: Heart and Soul
©2014 Deckard Publishing and Rebekah Dodson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please support authors by purchasing only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely from coincidence.
Acknowledgment
For Derek, thanks for helping me realize that sometimes, the pen is mightier than the sword. Without you, I would have never picked up either. You brought me back to life as a writer when I thought that side had died. Your stories inspired me to write my own, and this would have never happened without you.
Thank you to my family for putting up with me during the course of this novel: through many re-writes, edits, reading aloud, and discussions that helped me shape this story. Through late nights, early mornings, and long days. Through the times I was stuck where you helped me get through it. To my loving husband David, who learned that he's especially sexy in those moments when he vacuums and does the dishes, so I can sit down and write.
And above all, special thanks to Deckard Publishing, who took a chance on me, and gave my work value. You changed my life with your unwavering dedication and hard work.
Chapter One
Rochelle
I never really considered myself a writer.
Well, at least not until today.
If you had stopped me on the street, I would have said I was a "cultural expert" or maybe a "journalist," but that really just depended on the day I was having.
Okay, maybe a little to do with my levels of coffee intake, as well.
I really didn't even like writers.
When I thought of writers, it left a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted to spit that word like so much bile that had built up in the recesses of my stomach. The problem with writers is they lived their life by the pen; they crafted words into stories so unrealistic that the public would be caught in an unreal fantasy. I preferred to stay in touch with the world around me. For years I had written of people, events, and businesses. Each one had touched my heart - from the bakery that donated to the local homeless mission, to the church that fed single mothers. Over the years, I had traveled many places, met many people, and written many stories, but all of them in the realm of the here and now.
I didn't want to end up like one of those writers, who never lived, loved, and laughed outside their stories. They were cooped up in offices, weaving snores onto paper, and never had a chance to experience the outside world.
So my life had taken me down the path of journalism, where I could maintain my own concept of reality. I ran my hands over the smooth cherry wood desk in my new office, and reality was slowly hitting me. Senior Editor, I tried the words in my mouth. They tasted salty and sweet, layered with years of hard work, tears, and the agony of building this business into something successful. I actually had staff now I had to look after, to guide them through this process of being what the world called a "journalist." I wanted them to know that the world was wrong, and it didn't have to be boring starched shirts and stiff ties. It was about having fun, writing, and showing the world what we were made of.
I was going to change how the world saw me.
Little did I know, Elijah would change how I saw the world.
And it all started with a little postcard.
The problem with journalists was every single one of us had an article that we were afraid to share with the world.
My team didn't have those inhibitions.
"Let's do an article on food for the super bowl."
I looked across the table and met the crystal blue eyes of Elijah, my assistant editor and lead sports writer. Impeccably dressed as usual in a pinstriped gray suit, his red tie slightly skewed around his collar, he returned my stare with the slightest of winks in his left eye. The light in his eyes danced mischievously. I wondered what he was up to.
"I disagree," Marion said. My designated "foodie" journalist always had a quip. "I think that's a sexist piece, because it insinuates that women will be cooking the food."
"Oh boy, here she goes!" Elijah called, and slapped the paperwork in front of him. "You just never shut up, do you, M?"
Could we ever conduct our weekly meetings without those two getting into it? Elijah kicked me lightly under the table, and winked again. I rolled my eyes at him and kicked him, hard. He pouted, grabbed my coffee, and took a swig.
I hated when he did that.
"Well why don't we ask – hey, where is Alicia?" Marion asked. She flipped her cinnamon red hair over her shoulder. I shrugged as she met my gaze.
I hadn't seen her since before lunch. But I hadn't paid attention. When Elijah wanted us to sneak out and grab coffee it had to be planned to the –
Alicia suddenly rushed into the board-room-slash-editor's-office for the meeting. "Sorry I'm late, folks. Spilled my coffee at lunch and had to run home to change."
This was one of those times I was so glad we all worked in a small town. "Running home" for any of our staff members usually meant it was 4 blocks away. She plopped down heavily next to Elijah, the chair creaking under her slim frame, and placed a peck on his cheek. "Hi, baby," she whispered. He gave her his typical look of adoration, running a hand through his cropped blond hair.
I looked down at my papers, shuffling them absently. Why did he have to look at her like that, in front of me? This meeting wasn't going as planned.
I cleared my throat. "I actually like the idea of the super bowl food," I had to keep my winks to myself, as I looked from Elijah to Marion. "I really think you two should collaborate on it."
Elijah started to object, but he knew I would overrule him. Our games of interruption was irritating. I stopped him before he could begin. "Let's try some guy recipes AND girl recipes, so it's not from any sexist point of view. We could do buffalo chicken cheese dip, and football shaped cupcakes." I could tell Marion was thinking it over. "Marion, Talk to Jase at the bakery and see if that's something they can do, so maybe we can tie a local business into that article."
Elijah was still staring into Alicia's eyes like a love sick puppy. "Eli!" I snapped. I bit back a sharp remark. Men! "Why don't you interview a couple of the guys on the team and ask them what they like to eat for super bowl? That will help Marion come up with some recipes, ideas, and local businesses she can work with." He nodded, jotting down notes as I talked. Figures, now his head was back in the journalist game.
"Rochelle." God, I hated the sound of Alicia's voice as she addressed me. "I was thinking we should also do an article on the health benefits of inter mural sports," Alicia said. Always the health nut... but isn't that why I had hired her?
"Yeah, that sounds great," I said, coolly. "Look into the local schools and the different types of sports they offer, and go from there." I glanced around at my staff, nodding. "Okay everyone, not bad. Let's meet back here about one o'clock on Wedne
sday for the weekly check-in. Meeting adjourned." I banged my little gray gavel, one of Elijah's gag gifts he had given to me the first day in our new office. He said that all the big bosses had them, and it was my sign I had "arrived".
I watched my team push away from the table, stack their paperwork and notes, and leave the room. Elijah followed steadily behind Alicia, turning to give me a wink as he exited.
Always the wink.
When they all left, I put my head in my hands and sighed. I was doomed.
Chapter Two
I've known Elijah forever, of course. About 10 years ago, we sat in Psychology 201 together, never knowing what the world held for us. We were two kids, getting a late start on our college ambitions, but a start none the less. We quickly learned that he his talent was tests, and mine was writing, and our alliance formed. While he quizzed me on study questions for tests, I edited and reviewed his papers; marking errors with my red pen and jotting in notes for improvement.
I loved editing, even then.
Our study sessions were serious time commitments, despite both working full time together at a local coffee shop (look, it made our coffee addiction cheaper, okay?). Often it was hours into the night, long after the crickets had ceased their midnight declarations. We often huddled over steaming bowls of salty Top Ramen (he rarely had anything else in his confirmed bachelor's pad), discussing Freud's analytic theory, Pavlov's dog, and the issues of reaffirmation. Penciling in notes with some metal music in the background, the graphite moved rapidly across the page with a silent ambition.
Just a couple of college students, never wanting it to end, but we knew someday it would. We just never talked about it.
So there we were, in his tiny living room of a one bedroom house. The remains of our pepperoni and olive pizza sat between us, one piece left but both of us full. Outside, the lawn was overgrown, the fence was broken in places and had bent chain link in others, and some of the windows had bars on them. I always felt safe with him, so I thought it gave the house character. How could anyone not feel safe? He was built like a blond haired, blue eyed Hulk. At 6'5 and 250lbs, it was easy to imagine his life as a star quarterback of the varsity team just 4 years ago, but his love for pizza and bologna had certainly taken its toll.
If there was one thing we had in common, it was certainly our love of food. When I was with Elijah, I never had to worry about being criticized for how much I ate; never had to suffer the ridicule of overbearing looks and comments about my weight. Yes, I knew I outweighed Elijah by probably 50lbs. Did I care? Not really. Did Elijah care? Sometimes, but only when I was too busy to spot him at the gym. In the awkward post-High school years that determine your self-image, I was still figuring out who I was – and my size was my identity.
I sat on a beanbag, leaning over the upturned cardboard box that served as our table. He reclined on the love seat, surrounded by a sea of pastels: green, pink, and blue handouts from the three classes we shared were spread on the seat next to him, on the floor, and few on the card table that served as the dining area.
"Explain Freud's analytic theory issues of id, ego, and the super ego, and give examples of each," Elijah asked me the test prompt, causing me to look up from his sports medicine paper he was writing on the effective use of anti-inflammatory drugs. He looked over his thick glasses at me. I suppressed a smile; remembering he wouldn't be caught dead in public with them on, relying solely on his contacts during the school days.
I thought they made him look like a sophisticated scholar.
And even back then, a little sexy.
"Id, set of irrational structures, ego, the rational logical component, and super ego, the moralizing function –"
"Iceberg concept?" He interrupted me, intentionally.
"God, jerk," I laughed. "The iceberg concept denotes that the id floats above water, with the ego below it. The super ego rests at the bottom tip. An example would be shopping – the id is impulsive, and really wants to buy those pair of shoes. But the ego says, 'No, you can't afford it.' The super ego takes this a step farther and cajoles: 'Instead of buying those shoes, you should donate the money to charity instead.'"
"Good," he laughed, with a twinkle in his eye. "Shopping? Ro, geez. You're like the least girly-girl I know. You hate shopping."
I laughed. "I hate shoes, too." I look down; realizing we were both wearing our DC's again – his red and black, mine blue and white. What a symbol of our contrasts. I hated sports, he adored them. I hated shopping, and he was a picky consumer. But we both loved psychology, and had a passion for writing.
Our eyes met. It wasn't the first time in the two months since we had met that we shared a look. Call it mutual understanding, a silent communiqué of words, thoughts, feelings. Blue meets blue, we were locked in a silent embrace.
It was over faster than we could both blink; I often wondered about the meaning behind our exchanged glances.
My phone had buzzed then. I slid the screen to access the new text message. With inhuman speed, I typed a quick response.
Elijah, always so observant of my silence – of course, it was a rare occurrence. "Zeke?" he said, that one word holding so many unspoken emotions.
"Yeah," I said, turning back the paper I was editing. "He wants me to come home; apparently he's made dinner..."
"We're not done studying," such a soft answer, so unlike him.
"I know, I told him we'd be like an hour or so."
"You know he won't accept that."
"Well, he's going to, whether he likes it or not," I replied. Why were we even discussing this? The great thing about Elijah was he never pried – a good quality in a friend.
As if to answer my question, my phone rang. I silenced it; I was not in the mood to be interrupted by my clingy boyfriend!
"I don't know why you put up with it," Elijah said quietly. He shook his head softly, and I knew the conversation was over.
I didn't have an answer for him.
Elijah and I changed our major to journalism the next year but picked up a minor in psychology, both of us with a love for helping others, if the opportunity for counseling should arrive in the future. In the meantime, he focused on sports writing, and I on historical documents. I wanted to be an archaeologist then, still clinging to a childhood dream, and publish essays and articles for a big magazine.
Zeke came and went, and after him there was Aaron, the self-admitted cleaning freak that drove me nuts. For almost a year after Aaron there was Dominic, but it turns out that journalism majors didn't mesh well with computer geeks. Every time, Elijah was were with a bottle of tequila to drown my sorrows in. Elijah had Lucy, Becky, and Shelley, who all turned out to be self-absorbed health nuts that drove him up the wall in the end. He hated being alone as much as I did – and sometimes there were nights we watched TV until the sun rose, crashing on blankets spread on the living room floor.
I watched his heart get broken, time after time. He adored them all, treated them like queens. But I was the one to repair the damage they inflicted. Just as he always soothed me that another one would come along, and I was the refreshing air of friendship when his soul was wounded.
We always ended up alone in the end, but Elijah – oh! His build, his charisma, his intelligence, he always had a girl on his arm. I always joked he was a chick magnet, to which he would always respond: "More like a crazy magnet!"
At the end of the day, after the final class bell rung, our work day ended and study sessions ceased, he was the best friend I could ask for.
Chapter Three
I wondered if Elijah ever knew how hard it was for me each time my heart had been cruelly broken. He never seemed to be single long – it was still hard to believe I had introduced him to Alicia, Aaron's sister, nearly 4 years ago. It must be nice to have someone to take care of you, unlike my current single status of 3 years.
It was a long time. A really looooong time.
Career comes first, you know.
&
nbsp; I was too busy for love. My days began at 6am, and often ended well after midnight. Almost 2 years ago, I had decided to return to school to finish my graduate degree in English Journalism, on top of taking the top editor position. My bed called to me long before my homework was done.
Did I long for something more than my small two bedroom house? Did I stop in the doorway of my home office, and briefly contemplate how it would look if a crib replaced the desk? Sure, I did. When I cooked with a flourish, creating delicious chicken Florentine with roasted garlic Alfredo sauce, I wished I had someone to share it with.
But we are all cast different lots that we have to deal with.
I looked up at my computer screen, shaking my head from the nostalgia that crept up to deter me from my work. My pencils and red pens were replaced with a twitchy delete finger on the computer. I pinched my nose, frustrated that this article had taken up so much of my time. My coffee cup was drained hours ago, and the pot in the main office was empty. I was too committed to finishing this draft before I would get up and make more.
Glancing at the clock, I realized the stunted hand was dangerously close to the six. I had a thesis revision, on impact of historical reports in TIME magazine, due tomorrow that I needed to work on. I'd have to get out of here soon.
"Still at it, huh?" Marion stuck her head in my door.
I blinked and stretched my arms above my head. "Yeah, working on few articles," I yawned.
She let herself in, dressed in her blue down pea coat and her brown nosebag slug over her shoulder. She plopped down in one of the arm chairs that sat beside the empty coffee pot. "I'm headed home myself," as she shook her unruly red curls out of her face.
"How goes the research on super bowl food?"
Marion closed her emerald eyes and shook her head side to side. "I hate working with Elijah, but it will be fantastic, as usual."
The Writer Page 1