There’s always been something about writing outside that made me feel like I was alone in a room. I used to sit on the roof of my house and write in the dark. I’d use a small book light, lit on its lowest setting so as to not alert anyone walking late of my presence. If I wrote during the day, I’d put my headphones on and silence my surroundings. Every now and then I would look up to people-watch, arms over the pages of journal number whatever. It didn’t matter that people weren't necessarily near enough to read over my shoulder. The wind might have caught imprints of the ink on the page and blown away with it.Back then I’d lose count of however many journals I’d go through. If I wanted to satisfy my own curiosity I could've flipped to the back cover to find a roman numeral on the bottom right, but I’d rather just keep writing and let the pen run out of ink or the leather bound book run out of pages. 

As I make my way across the busy streets, a loud beep made its way through my headphones despite the noise cancellation being activated. I should probably look into getting my money back. I raised my hand exchanging pleasantries with the car that interrupted my public isolation. He gives me the finger as I continue to cross the street but I just roll my eyes and ignore it. It's New York asshole, and traffic is practically stopped entirely. Not to mention it's a two lane street in a residential neighborhood; chill.

I readjust my bag on my shoulder and turn up the dial on my headphones as if they’ll play any louder than top volume. If Brynne were with me, she would pull them back to sit on my neck and ask me if I wanted to go deaf before smacking me on the shoulder. I smile at the thought, rubbing my shoulder as if the action had been performed even in her absence. Lucky for me she had an early class and left before me this morning. My meeting with my advisor wasn’t until this afternoon so I took my time getting ready after she’d walked into my room to rip me a new one. 

“I’m serious Arya,” she’d threatened, “you can’t and will not avoid that nice old white man forever!” I pulled the pillow over my face and pretended to suffocate myself with it, muffling my frustrated groan in response. She pulled it off my face to find a deep scowl. Why the hell was she so chipper first thing in the morning when she’s not a morning person. I used to be in charge of her throughout undergrad, making sure she got out of bed and went to her morning classes after I’d already gotten ready.

Now how the tables have turned. 

“He’s gonna want the new pages for my thesis and they’re not ready B.” I answered her, rubbing the leftover z’s from the beautiful deep slumber that I’d finally achieved. 

“Bullshit. You were up till 3 am typing again. There has to be something you can give him.” She walked across my small bedroom to sit next to me on the bed. 

I sit up and pick up the book next to me on the bed, placing the bookmark on the page I left off last night before falling asleep. The spine is so broken in from the amount of times I’ve read it, the pages wilted and stained. But it still smells like roses when I open it. I flip open the cover of the old hardcopy and play with the flattened rose. It’s lost its color over the course of its decay, but it never really lost its aroma. 

She smacks me on the shoulder, “Ow! Brynne, seriously, it’s too early for your domestic abuse.” 

“First of all don’t change the subject, and second of all, that’s not domestic abuse.” She hands me a muffin I hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and leans on her elbow by my feet. I contemplate kicking her off the bed in retaliation but I can’t start my morning off with so much violence before I’ve had a proper cup of coffee. I take the muffin instead and begin peeling the filter, “Actually, we’re roommates which means we live together and you just hit me without provocation. Domestic. Abuse.” I bite the muffin to discover it’s blueberry.

“Hahaha,” she responds without humor and begins to stand, “now if you’re done, I’d like you to get out of bed and in the shower before I leave please and thanks.” She makes her way out my room but doesn’t close the door behind her. 

“When did you become such a mom!” I yell behind her, throwing myself against the mattress in silent protest.

“When did you become a toddler who has to be dragged out of bed,” she responds from somewhere in the tiny apartment, “Now SHOWER! Or I’ll pour a pitcher of ice water from the fridge on you!” 

With that I threw open my warm comforter and got out of bed. When I’d gotten out of the shower, she’d already left. I walked into the kitchen to find a fresh pot of coffee on the counter and a small note next to it: ‘GO TO THE MEETING AND GET YOUR THESIS NOTES! P.S. It’s your turn to make dinner tonight :)’

Great.

Maybe if I went home and pouted about the absolute trash meeting I’m about to have, she’d feel bad for this morning and make dinner instead. I’d always hated cooking and she always complained that I didn’t season it enough so it would do us both a solid. 

I pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by the purple NYU banners on either side of the front desk. The student working it doesn’t even look up from whatever they're doing as I walk around her and to the elevators. After pushing the button, I open my bag and pull out the black enclosed folder with both my previous edits and my new pages. 

As I do though, I notice that my brown leather journal isn’t in the bag. On cue, my heart speeds up a little and I immediately start rummaging through my bag and retracing my steps to the last time I’d written in it. 

When the doors to the elevator finally open, I stand there for a second, contemplating whether or not to ditch my meeting and go find my journal. Stomping my foot a little in resignation, I walk in and press the button to the eighth floor. I curse under my breath all the way up, wondering where that hell I could have misplaced the worn leather. It literally never leaves my side and yet here we are. Standing in an elevator with my heart racing and my patience waning. What's more is the fact that I’m about to listen to a man tell me, yet again, that my writing sucks and has no intention behind it. It’s a long research paper Jonothan, the intention is to report my research. Right?

I roll my eyes at myself before releasing a tense breath. Just a quick hour meeting and then I can go home and tear my room apart. Where else would it be if not in the damn apartment, seriously? I needed to get a grip.

The elevator doors opened, and I walked out the small metal box. As I turned the corner, I ran smack into my thesis advisor's chest and dropped my thesis notes at his feet. He held me by my elbows, steadying me a moment before letting go.

“Oh gosh! Arya, please excuse me. I was just about to text you asking to reschedule. I forgot I am meant to pick my daughter up early from school today.”

I readjust my bag on my shoulder and give a silent thanks to the universe. “Of course, it’s no worries! Email me your next available appointments and I’ll make it work.” I gave him an assuring smile to help him feel better as he still looked at me with guilt in his eyes. However, this couldn’t have worked out better for me so I hope he’ll let it go. 

“Here, why don't you give me your notes and I’ll look over them this afternoon and give you my thoughts tomorrow-ish? You can come in the day after tomorrow around this time and we can discuss them in person to make up for it.” 

“Sure, that works for me. But no pressure on the notes, I have time to make more edits before the end of the year.”

“Alright, I’ll see you Thursday then in my office!” he said, moving to walk back towards the elevator. I gave him an agreeing nod and headed for the stairs. I didn’t want to share an elevator and have him continue to apologize. By the time I made it back down to the lobby he should be gone and I could be on my way. 

After a 20 minute train back, I had already made a mental list of the places to check in the apartment. I walked in and set my purse on the kitchen island closest to the door. As I started tying my hair back and walking towards my room I noticed my journal on the coffee table in front of the couch. I stood there for a minute, entrapped by its mirage. When I walked around and reached for it I was careful not to trip any booby-traps that might be attached to it. 

There’s no way I left my journal out on the coffee table. I can’t even remember the last time I sat on the couch let alone used the coffee table. Sometimes Brynne and I eat in front of the TV but as of late we’ve eaten on the island. So why the hell would it be on the coffee table?

Brynne. 

As if I had summoned her with the thought, she walks into the small New York apartment and immediately starts peeling off her shoes and setting them in the basket near the door. 

“You won’t believe the day I have had so far,” she places her keys on the rack and places the chain on the door, just as she always has since we’ve lived together. My hands are wrapped around the small leather bound book, I’m looking at the knot of the string that binds it shut - not quite right.

“I mean really, an absolute hectic afternoon.” She heads for her room but leaves the door open. I follow her inside with my journal still in hand. 

“Did you grab my journal, B?”

She walks out of her bathroom in a pair of sweats and a ponytail in place. Leaning on the doorframe and looking at me somewhat wearily, she says, “It was on the island this yesterday when I made dinner. I put it on the coffee table while I was cleaning the kitchen.” 

The explanation made complete sense in the grand scheme of things, but there was something so practiced about the response that made me question it. “Why didn’t you just bring it to me in my room?” 

“Why is it so important? I just moved it to the coffee table. You found it didn’t you? What’s the issue.” 

“There’s no issue,” I answered her, “I was just wondering.” Walking out of her room and towards my own, I untied the flimsy knot and started flipping through the pages. Taking notice of a few entries, I flip to the back cover: ‘XVIII’. This is the journal before the one I am currently on. The one that should be sitting at the top of my bookshelf in chronological order with the rest. 

Most of my journals are different sizes and colors, given that I don't buy them all at the same time or place. This particular journal, however, is the twin of the one I’m on because I bought the set at a reading a few months ago. There is no reason for this journal to have been on the island last night; which means that Brynne had to have come in to grab it. 

I close the broken-into book of secrets and properly tie the knot. I pull the others off the shelf and place them on my bed. I head for the closet and pull out my heavy red coat – the one with my favorite deep pockets. I reach into the left hand side, and pull out the matching journal before rehanging my coat. The moment I read the roman numeral on the back cover, I had a memory jump into mind. I wore that coat yesterday when I was writing at the park after class. Rather than having to take off and open my bag, I just placed the journal in my pocket and headed home. 

Brynne had lied to me. Why had she lied to me?

It’s not the first time she’s read something of mine. There are very few people I’ve let read pieces of the journals or particular entries but she’s been one of them. What could she have been looking for? I reached over my hung clothing and started taking shoe boxes off the top shelf. They mostly contained files or little knick-knacks I’d collected or held onto over the years, but they weren’t all that important. 

I placed the journals on that shelf in their stead, and the boxes on the empty top bookshelf. I placed my current journal in the drawer of my nightstand and turned the key that sat in the keyhole before removing it and setting it on the jewelry dish next to the lamp. Finally, I let myself fall backward onto the mattress and took a deep breath before curling up on top of the comforter and letting all my unanswered questions aggravate me to sleep like a lullaby.

When I woke up it was 2 in the morning and the house was silent. I got up and changed into pj’s before walking into the kitchen/living room. Brynne’s bedroom door was closed and there was a plate on the island covered in foil with my name on top. She’d made dinner despite the fact that it had been my turn and even left me some in case I left my room. 

Guess the guilt of reading my journal overpowered her defensive demeanor from last night. I let out a small sigh and walked over to pick it up and place it in the fridge. It was too late to eat a whole meal right now, so I pulled out a yogurt and grabbed a spoon walking back to my room. I snacked and read for a bit before turning off the light and going back to sleep. Brynne would be up in a few hours, but I doubt she’ll come and wake me in the morning. 

When I woke up again it was already mid morning. I had a class in the early afternoon, so I got up and got ready quickly so I would have some time to write by the fountain on Washington Square Park. With my toothbrush still in my mouth I moved around the room collecting my things and placing them in my bag. Walking over to the nightstand, I tried pulling open the drawer to feel a struggle. I’d forgotten I had locked it again last night after reading. I reached for the key on the dish and pulled out  my journal before closing it without locking it. 

It wouldn't be in there anyway so why waste another thirty seconds. I walked back into the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste and return my toothbrush. Leaving the house, I grabbed my phone and keys and locked the door. Brynne forgot her keys but I should be home before her by at least an hour today, so she’d be able to get in. Even so, I headed for the lobby and let Janice, the supper, know that Brynne might call and ask her to open the door again. She made a small snide comment but assured me she’d be on site all day. 

I rushed out to make the next train, pulling my headphones over my head to drown out the heavy-breathing of the city. When I finally made it, I took a seat on the fountain with my bag under my arm and my journal on my lap. I wrote the date on the top right hand corner and dedicated the entry like I had every other: 

“Dear Journal,” But that was it. Nothing else. The pen wouldn’t move, the ink wouldn’t skid across the page. My mind fell blank. I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t writing when I had plenty to say. Something about the action felt watched at that moment – analyzed even and I wasn't sure why. I pulled off my headphones and let the city re-awaken around me. I looked around for a while at the people who walked by, seemingly unaware and unbothered. My phone rang in my bag and I reached for the salvation of the interruption of my thoughts. Without caring who it was that had saved me from the amount of overthinking that was about to take hold of me, I answered the phone.

“Hello.” I started putting away my pen and journal in my bag, placing my phone between my shoulder and my ear. 

“Good Afternoon, My name is Chandler Vance at Vance Publishing. I’m looking for Arya Vale?” I quickly started going through the list of publishing companies I had applied to intern for the last few weeks. I couldn’t recall Vance Publishing. I’m sure it’s on the list given that Prf. Stone recommended I apply there at the meeting before last but I know I haven’t gotten to it yet. How did they have my number?

“Yes, hi! I’m Arya. How can I help you?” I tried to hide my confusion. 

“Well Ms. Vale, I was hoping to talk about the piece you submitted to us about a week ago. My secretary and interns were very impressed with it and passed it along to me. I got your number from Brandon Stone yesterday after realizing that you had been the student he recommended for our Internship program recently.”

Had Prf. Stone gave him a copy of my thesis? No, why would he? If anything I am sure he told me to submit something less formal and more explorational; fiction, or a short-story. Something that had more creativity to it. But I’m not a writer, I was hoping to be there to evaluate others' work, not pitch my own. 

“I was wondering if you’d be interested in coming in tomorrow to speak of it a bit. I would also like to speak about negotiations for future pages and chapters. I’m sure you’ve submitted to other publishing  houses and I would like to get ahead of the game.”

“I, um, yes that would be great! I would love to speak with you about a position on your interning staff but I’m not sure what piece you are referencing? Did Prf. Stone share a copy of my current thesis?”

“Uh, no actually I was referencing the untitled works of the prose in the entries you shared. I assumed it was a style of writing you are exploring for the narrative. The slight poetic feel of your prose creates a vibrant image in your readers mind. It really feels like having a conversation with your reflection,” 

I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. I was sure all the blood had drained from my face because I could feel the autopilot setting in and the tingling of my fingertips as I walked back towards the train. “So I was wanting to see where it is that you’d like to head with the novel and the plot you might incorporate. We have an amazing editor and author relationship here at Vance and I want you to feel comfortable exploring your ideas with us.” 

Someone runs into me, but I keep moving forward. “How about we say, 3 pm tomorrow? Brandon mentioned he looked forward to also talk to you about the piece in your meeting tomorrow morning, so we can do it right after that.” What in the hell is happening. 

“Um, yes. That works fine. Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I can’t remember if I waited for his reply or not before hanging up but once I had, I pulled my headphones over my head again and rushed home, class be damned. I had other things to do at the moment, like figuring out how the hell they both got copies of my damn journals. I have never made copies of the pages, why would I?! Who else would rea-

Brynne. 

Brynne, Brynne, Brynne, Brynne, Brynne. 

From that moment after until I got home, the panic and confusion settled and gave way for the rise of my rage. How could she? WHY would she? She had no right. No freaking right to go through my things, take freaking copies, and then DISTRIBUTE them to who heaven knows who. What am I supposed to do now that they are out and what entries exactly had she shared? I had to go home and read that journal and figure out what internal shame she had taken upon herself to disclose. 

When I unlocked the door, I walked in to find her eating a plate of noodles on the sofa watching Rupaul's Drag Race. She turned to see me while blowing the forkful of instant noodles she had hovering over the plate. Before taking in the mouthful, she turns forward again and says, 

“If you’re done being mad at me you should grab a bowl and come watch. They are about to lip sync for their lives.” 

I closed the door behind me and set my keys and purse on the island. “What the hell did you do with the pages you copied from my journal?” 

Her back stiffened for a minute before she answered me, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t fucking lie to me Brynne. I got a call from Vance Publishing today asking about the piece I had submitted and if I could come in to talk about it!” 

At this, she reacted and hurriedly paused her show and set her bowl down. She kneeled on the sofa and turned to face me, as if the excitement of the news had her on the edge of her seat. “What?! Seriously?! What did you say?!” 

“What the hell do you mean what did I say?! Answer the damn question Brynne Marysol Cordena! Why would you go through my things and then share freaking copies of my PERSONAL JOURNALS!”

The use of her full name made her aware of the depth of my anger and her demeanor changed from excitement to stating the damn obvious.

“I know you might be angry-”

“MIGHT?!” I interrupted outraged. She half lifted her hands in surrender, “but you would never have agreed to it if I asked and you would have never have done it for yourself either. I took matters into my own hands. I’m sorry I went through your stuff, but I am not sorry that I submitted your work to publishing companies.”

“Compa-NIES? Plural Brynne?!”

“I wanted to give you multiple options Ar. So I submitted to 5 companies in New York that would work with your school schedule.” 

“And what exactly did you think would come out of this invasion of privacy Brynne?”

She started getting defensive here, speaking with more punch, “An opportunity, an experience?! God Arya, I was trying to help. I get that you're mad but it is really not that deep! So I read your journal again, you’ve shown me entries in the past and they were great! Why is this such a big deal?!”

“Because Brynne! That was my choice! I shared them with you because I trusted you with them, because I was proud of certain things that I wanted to share with MY best friend. Not the whole freaking publishing world!”

She crossed her arms in front of her and looked at the floor in resignation. “You had no right because it wasn't your life to share Brynne. It was mine! Those were my confessions, my secrets, my memories. Everything I have never said out loud to anyone including myself is in those journals and you just decided to put it on display without my permission!” 

“Okay, and I get that and I’m sorry! But you’re an amazing writer Arya and I wanted you to exploit that for your future. You could be someone someday!” 

“I am not a writer Brynne and those journals weren’t yours to exploit! They were letters to myself and to others in my life. They are the character growth of me and you decided it was up to you to expose every thought I've had, every mistake I have made, every love I have ever had? It wasn’t for you Brynne! Or are you so entitled that you don’t even care?” 

I grabbed my bag and walked around her towards my room, slamming the door behind me. I threw my bag on the mattress and headed for the closet. I didn’t realize I had started crying or when but my vision blurred from the steaming tears on my face. I pulled each journal off the shelf and threw them on the ground behind me. They scattered on the floor, out of order from the way they had originally been kept. The varying colors littered the floor and the smell or leather became prominent as I kneeled next to them. 

I began untying each one and tearing the pages out the seams. One after the other I would tear and tear and tear. The pages floated around for a few seconds before settling on the floor around me. The different handwriting from over the years danced around me, and I could hear the echo of each sentence that caught my eye as I severed it from the safety of the leather books.  After I had entirely dissected each journal, I walked over to the nightstand and opened the drawer looking for the tape. 

I began pulling my bed off the wall and pushing it against the bookshelf opposite of it and pushed the nightstands from either side out of the way. With a new found urgency I picked up the severed pages and threw them on the bed. Some were damaged a bit in the process of it all but it doesn't really matter. Looking at the space in my small New York apartment, I readjusted the bed to give me some more room and then proceeded to line the edge of the nightstand with varying sizes of tape. 

I pulled my curls into a messy bun and slipped my shoes off, tossing them towards the closet. I picked up a few random pages from the bed and scanned the contents briefly:

“That Awkward point in time where something just ended so that something else can begin. I feel like an odd number. there because that's my place but still somehow out of place. a formality, a mere regularity.”

“ I spent a good portion of my day wishing I'd go back, knowing I probably never will. That's okay though because I wanted to be back not to relive the experience but to simply not be here. I think the whole transition has been hard for me,...”

 “Now I know for sure it won't matter because he wasn't the boy I fell for to begin with. the boy I loved was kind and generous and loving and that,...”

One by one I started pasting the pages to the wall in disarray. They made no sense on their own really, though I could briefly recall the moments they were referring to. Every page was pasted in another empty spot on the wall. At one point they started overlapping one another because I couldn't reach the higher areas on the wall. The voices of their prose began speaking over one another, interrupting their comradery in the middle of their display. Some dates were visible, others were not. It was cathartic to see them all at once and know that every page contained a piece of my life. I stepped back as I pasted the last page in the middle of the wall. It was the cover page of my first journal. My name, my phone number, and a very non-threatening note to not read what was inside. It made me laugh a little to myself, knowing that a twelve year old me had written that. 

In the process of it all I realized that I had never doodled on any of the pages. All they contained were the words of the time in different handwriting: some had bold round lettering, while others had elegant cursive. I could even differentiate the general period some pages were on given the type of pen I had obsessed over at the time. 

In more recent years my handwriting has become more uniform I’ve noticed; more cohesive. I don’t stray from the same type of pen or the same mold-lettering-cursive combination. Rather I noticed that I had begun annotating on the pages of my life’s work essentially. Different colored ink would underline a word and then with a line, lead you to a continuation of that thought. Sometimes what had begun as an entry, turned into the brainstorming of a story. Another life. I had begun inserting observations from my people-watching and incorporating them into my writing. 

A soft knock on my door, semi-interrupted my thoughts. “Come in.” I said, not looking over at the opening door. I felt Brynne walk over and sit next to me on the floor, facing my breakdown displayed on the wall. She sat with her ankles crossed and hugging her knees while I sat criss crossed and leaning on my arms. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. We just sat there with our eyes roaming through the pages. “This is amazing, Arya.” she finally said, breaking our comfortable silence.

“Is it?” I asked, “It just seems like chaos to me.”

She gave a small smile, “A beautiful chaotic mess. The best of its kind.” Her response made me laugh a little. I let out a sigh and she looked over at me. 

“Why don’t you think you're a writer?” 

I pondered for a moment, not sure if I could articulate my answer. “Writers have something to say. Thoughts, and feelings, and ideas that people want to read. Why would anyone want to read anything I’ve written?” I spoke very matter of factly, but in reality the thought made me want to roll my eyes. Brynne simply shook her head silently, contemplating my words. “Because if it made you feel something, why wouldn’t it make someone else feel something too?” I kept staring at my wall, at the words bouncing off the page. 

“You write because it was an escape for you. People read for the same reason. Because it offers them the opportunity to live life in someone else's perspective even if it's just for a while.”

“But what if my perspective isn't one others find worth reading? What if I fail and nothing I say matters to anyone else. Or what if I live without any sense of financial security?”

“If what you say matters to you, then it matters to other people who might identify with you Arya. A writer doesn’t have to be someone who is published or well known, a writer is someone who displays their thoughts and emotions through written form. But none of this matters if you don’t see that for yourself. And who says you have to write the answer to life and how to live it? This isn’t a make it or break it moment, it’s simply you putting yourself and something you love and have worked on for the better half of your life out for others to see.” She slowly began getting up off the floor and walking toward the door. Before stepping out she looked back at me, “There is so much of you in those journals, Arya. Why is it that you don't find it good enough to get to know?” Without waiting for a reply, she walked out and softly closed the door behind her. 

I’ve spent my entire life documenting every piece of my mind and the way I’ve grown. Now that it's all plastered on my bedroom wall, it seems like such a short life lived. There is so much more of it that I want to experience doing the things that I love with the people I love. But looking at it now, I can’t remember why it was so important to me for it to be kept secret. At one point, I wrote to hide from others– to escape the way Brynne had described. Now? Now I write because it's something I love. There’s never been a risk in doing something that I loved the way there would be if I tried making a career out of it. What if I grow to resent the thing that once made me feel most special and understood; even if no one else had read it. 

There wasn’t any pressure behind the words written – and better yet the ones left unwritten. There wasn’t anything necessarily needing to be dissected. They were simply the words meant only for me. My thoughts in prose on the pages of those journals. All my triumphs, all my sorrows; my grievances, and my aspirations. Who would want to read that? Better yet, why would I let them? 

—----------------------------------------THE NEXT MORNING--------------------------------------------

I stood on the sidewalk with my bag on my shoulder and my headphones resting at the base of my neck, music still seeping through. My grip was tight on the strap of my bag, but I took a quick breath and rushed inside before losing my nerve. 

“Hi, I’m here for a meeting with Mr. Vance.” I said to the nice girl at the front desk. She looked up at me and smiled, “Great! Are you here for an internship interview?”

A few contemplating beats passed before I answered, “No, I, um.” I cleared my throat and tried to hide my hesitations, “I’m here about a piece he asked to discuss,”. Another beat later, I continued, “I’m a writer.” 

I smiled at her almost apologetically but she dismissed it with her unknowingly reassuring smile. It brought me more comfort than she would ever know. “Just give him a few minutes and he’ll come out to greet you.” I nodded and went to sit over at the couch. 

A few minutes later, Mr. Vance walked out. He walked over and extended his hand, “Ms. Vale, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you.” I stood up and took his hand, shaking it in return, “Thank you for meeting me Mr. Vance.” 

“Please, call me Chandler!” 

“Arya will be fine too then” I answered smiling. 

We walked over to his office and had a bit of small talk. My nerves were both settling and multiplying with every step. Once inside, he motioned for me to sit in the small living room area he had in front of his desk rather than at it. On the coffee table he had the copies of what I recognized to be scanned pages from my journal. Areas of the page were annotated or circled with what I believe are his thoughts on the material. Despite being intimidated by his critiques I was also excited to see where he interacted with the work. I’d never really had a workshop in this way. Nothing to be told I could grow on. 

He sat down on the larger couch and I took a seat on the fancy chair next to it. “Now tell me,” he began, “have you ever published anything else? Self or otherwise?”

I took a small breath. “Yes actually, I’ve had a few anonymous pieces in various university magazines and I sometimes publish short stories on a site I created early in my undergrad years.”

“That’s wonderful Arya, Brandon hadn’t mentioned it when we spoke.”

“That’s actually because he isn’t aware. I’ve never advertised it or claimed it.”

“Really? What is it called?” he reaches for a pen and pad in the middle of the coffee table.

“The Letters in My Valt” I answer. No one knows about the site. It gets hits by word of mouth because like I said, I’ve never advertised it. It has a solid following of a few hundred people but that’s it. 

“I’m curious to know if you are looking to further develop the observations of the heroine? She seems to be so in tuned to those around her but detached from the progression of the events herself. Where do you think you might want to take this?”

That wasn’t an easy question to answer. Especially when the heroine was not a heroine but me. He was practically asking me where I wanted to take my own life and I didnt have one single answer; but then again that was the answer itself. 

“Well, I have a few thoughts but I think the one that pops out most to me is her continuous stream of consciousness. Her focus is directed to the life and the people around her as she contemplates the path and purpose of her own life. What happens when the thing that was simply a passion becomes her dream and one that she might not accomplish.”

“And given that all your previous work has been anonymous, why claim it now?”

I didn’t want to tell him that my roommate had been the one to submit the work. She’s given me the push that I needed, but the decision to claim it had to be mine. And the truth was a simple one. It terrified me, but that wasn’t a reason not to at least try. I won’t grow as one if I don’t open myself to that world without hiding in it.

“Because,” I felt my heartbeat in my chest, the same way I had on the elevator two days ago when I couldn’t find my journal, except this time it was fueled by aspirations rather than fears, 

 “I want to be a writer.”