But instead, the thought depresses me. I guess I wanted to love this writing thing more than I allowed myself to admit.
Then again, maybe Julia was right when she said writing is the pits eighty percent of the time, no matter what you’re working on. Writing requires focus. Your brain needs to be firing on all cylinders. At the same time, it can be boring as fuck. At least that was the case with my dissertation.
I thought this kind of writing would be different, but maybe it’s not.
Maybe all writing is difficult and boring. But maybe it’s also worth it in the end. Drafting my dissertation, I hated every minute I was chained to my computer, typing and worrying and typing some more. When I was done for the day, though, I would feel such a huge sense of accomplishment. Three quarters of the time, I hated writing itself. But having written?
Best feeling in the world. And if I felt that way after finishing a dissertation on nineteenth century social mores, I can only imagine how I’ll feel after finishing the book of my heart.
So, because I clearly have zero self-control, I download an app that locks you out of the internet for a set amount of time. Two hours of just me and a blank page.
Keep it simple.
Eli’s words echo in my head.
Simple. Right.
Forget the Shakespeare. Literature nerds like me might appreciate that. But all readers appreciate a well told story.
That’s all I’ll focus on today. The story. Two damaged, lonely, sexually frustrated people falling in love. Saving themselves and each other in the process.
Nothing more. Nothing less. I can always go back and embellish once the bones of the book are there.
I put my fingers on the keyboard, and force them to move.Chapter ThirteenOliviaIt takes me all afternoon to finish the next chapter. Every sentence is a struggle. But knowing Eli is expecting the next installment of Cate and Gunnar’s story tonight is terrific motivation.
By the time I’m done, the sun has started to set. I’m beat. I feel like I ran a mental marathon. I can practically see the steam coming out of my ears when I duck into the bathroom on my way out of Holy City Roasters.
As tired as I am, though, it feels good to get all those words down. Like they’d been building up inside me. Bottlenecking. Making me anxious. But now that they’re released, I feel satisfyingly empty—content—calm in a way I haven’t in a long time.
Waving goodbye to Grace—these friendly southerners must be rubbing off on me—I step out into the sunset and take a deep, cleansing breath.
I don’t even know what time it is.
I don’t care. All I know is that I’m famished, and I could really go for a gigantic glass of ice cold wine.
I could go back to the carriage house. Do some laundry. Answer some emails. Have a glass of wine there. Maybe have Julia over.
But it’s such a beautiful night. The sky is a rainbow of pinks and oranges and purples. Spotless. The air is warm, the humidity falling.
I decide to take another page out of Cate’s book and do what I want.
I want to explore the city. Meet her people and taste her flavors.
So I pop into the art gallery I passed earlier. Turns out there’s a little gallery crawl going on in this neighborhood, The French Quarter. I accept the glass of champagne an owner presses into my hand and drink it slowly while I browse alongside casually dressed patrons chatting in drawls. I meet a painter, a real estate developer. A gynecologist who moonlights as a pirate tour guide.
The neighborhood is gorgeous. A little buzzed from the champagne, I get lost walking down a cobblestone street. I find an adorable wine and cheese shop. Duck inside for a decadent wedge of French goat cheese and a deliciously crisp glass of rosé.
I’m learning that Charleston is a very easy place to fall for.
I keep wandering, approaching The Pearl. For a second, I consider popping inside for a drink. Eli will be there.
The thought makes my stomach dip and my heart skip a beat.
But as much as I’d like to see Eli-the-kitchen-god at work again, I’m enjoying my own company. I kind of want to experience the city by myself.
I walk past The Pearl, and belly up to the bar at another restaurant nearby. I order a salad and, on the bartender’s recommendation, quail, which I’ve never had before. It’s all insane. I finish the meal with an oyster shooter—vodka, house made Bloody Mary mix, and a raw oyster—and head back out into the night.
The moon is out on my walk home. It’s late for a Wednesday—past ten—and while the city is quiet, there’s still this energy in the warm autumn air. This sense of history and movement. I’m stuffed. The branches on a nearby Magnolia tree block out the moon. A man makes his way down the opposite side of the street, walking two chubby dachshunds on leather leashes.