A Small Inconvenience

“The Nrekuma screeched, tossing Surge from its hide with a half-broken claw. Surge cried out, falling to the ground. The beast reared back, swinging its tail toward Castien.”

Zeus’ piercing bark rang through the house. It was pretty much the dog-equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. I blinked a few times, my train of thought coming to a grinding halt. I reread the last few sentences I had written, tracing the words on my sleek Apple keyboard.

I reached over to my Carmel tennis cup, feeling the cool metal in my hand and raising it to my lips. The warm Twinning’s Apple-Peppermint Tea poured onto my tongue, blessing my tastebuds with its almost divine flavor. It had not come like that, of course. I had mixed the apple and peppermint together, which was something that Lukas always made fun of me for. But hey, it tasted good— and it paired surprisingly well with writing a fantasy book that was simultaneously totally absurd and utterly brilliant. I leaned forward in my thick, leather swivel chair, and laid my fingers on the slender keyboard.

“Hey Nick?” Dad called from the hallway. I let out a long, slow sigh. All I was asking for was an hour of peace to write without distractions, was that really too much to ask?

“Yes?” I responded, forcibly dampening my annoyance. I heard heavy footsteps behind me. I pushed off the wooden desk, turning my chair past the half-dozen shelves overhead filled with a strange mixture of Lukas and I’s artwork and my parents’ old medical books.

“I know you’re trying to write and I’ll leave you to it but I wanted to let you know that we heard back from PJ! She said that she’d love to work on Stormless with us!” Dad said, a child-like grin spreading across his face. I sat there, totally silent for at least twenty seconds before Dad left the room; not before flashing another big smile, though.

I turned back to the computer. I started curling my toes in my furry, Vuori slippers. My Barefoot Dreams Mickey-Mouse Bathrobe couldn’t come close to the warm fuzziness I felt inside. I unlatched the stopper on my chair, leaning back all the way.

An editor. My book… My book is going to have an editor. Hours spent staring at the pale glow of the computer screen, countless nights spent dreaming up plots that were far more complicated than they had any right to be… All of it would be edited. 

And it was real. Every single thing that I had transferred from my overcrowded brain to this simple Google Doc was about to become real. I recalled Dad telling me a few days ago that if the editor did accept my book, she wouldn’t start her work until she finished up her current project. Sure, that wouldn’t take more than a few weeks, but that was still only a few weeks. 

My mind raced, the possibilities soaring like a Blazecrest in the winds of a Storm Gale— a flaming bird and an extra-dangerous thunderstorm, both of which happen to be figments of my imagination that I brought to life in my book. It was all going to be real. 

Now was hardly a time to get caught up in the moment— I had writing to do— but I couldn’t help myself. The thought of a stranger reading about Castien, Nrekuma, Surge, and Tempests was… I searched for the word. My emotions went on a brief, turbulent roller coaster ride through the realities of what editing and publishing a book meant. Finally, I decided that it was something I was happy about.

Satisfied, I sat up and laid my fingers on the keyboard. I felt like a god, ready to build an entire world with my own two hands. I felt like a king, standing ready to give orders to my subjects— all whom I had created. I felt like… I felt like an author, sitting before a computer, ready to type out a wild, thrilling, and emotional story for readers all around the world to enjoy.

The snow-capped mountains of anxiety built deep within my mind melted as the seconds passed. And there, sitting in that warm leather chair, I knew: Everyone had a purpose in life; I had always believed that. My parents were meant to be doctors, my grandfather was meant to be a lawyer, and my grandmother was meant to teach. And me?

I was meant to write.