I was completely alone. The only light in my bedroom was from four vanilla candles and the screen from my computer. It had been a warm day, the first of spring reaching into 70 degrees. I was wearing black sweat shorts and last year’s Relay for Life team t-shirt reading, “I-rish for a Cure 2010”. A thin, sweatshirt blanket lay across my legs. It was my favorite from college.
The window was open and the smell of spring wafted into the room , gently blowing my navy curtains. I had turned the ceiling fan on earlier and it was my absolute favorite sound. It had started to rain gently and I heard the drops tap the pane of my open window. My hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and still felt damp from my shower earlier.
I stared at the computer screen through my glasses. I sat in disbelief and turned to look at the clock. It was 10:44 PM on April 11, 2011. I had finished my novel. After years of failed attempts, and the past few months consisting of labors of love, sadness, heartache, and hope, I had finished. My fingers were still poised above the keys, but words no longer escaped. Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy was playing quietly in the back ground and I felt a smile cross my lips. And without warning, I began to sob. I had just finished my first novel! I needed to share it with someone, so I picked up my phone. It was late and I wasn’t sure if he’d be awake, but I was too excited and I wanted to share. I constructed a text message to a good friend proclaiming that my first novel was finished. To my surprise and happiness, he replied with words of support and encouragement. I was happy to share my excitement with him.
I sat still on my bed, not wanting to disturb the moment. It was a perfect moment, emotional and wonderfully bittersweet. I smiled to myself again and sent the finished product off to my editor, tears still in my eyes. And when he replied with “You’ve made a wonderful piece of art”, I began to sob more, all the while still smiling. I was going to be an author.
If I had ever doubted writing as my path in life, it was confirmed by the feeling I felt staring at the last page of “My Song”, the cursor flashing to the beat of Debussy. What an absolute perfect moment, what an absolute perfect feeling.
I tip-toed out into the quiet house. Every room was dark. I reached my parents bedroom and opened the door gently.
“I finished,” I whispered wondering if one of them would hear me.
They didn’t reply, but I felt good knowing that I said it outloud regardless of whether they were fast asleep. I closed the door and tip toed back through the living room. I stared out of the floor to ceiling windows at the night sky. It was beautiful and I smiled again before heading back to my bedroom. I didn’t want to sleep. I wanted to freeze the moment and keep it on a shelf and relive it any time I wanted. I texted my friend one last time joking about how I should try and get some sleep, but doubting I’d be able to. He wished me good night and I lay my head down, smiling still, and to my surprise, I drifted off to a sound and well deserved sleep.
I was an author and “My Song” was singing…
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