After almost a year, I’m sitting down to write the story that’s been percolating inside my head. For good luck, I run my finger over my cross necklace a nurse gave me right before I left the hospital after my accident. The elderly lady slipped it into my hands while my parents checked me out. She told me I should always cling to my faith, and though I’ve wavered time and time again, I remember her words. The silver cross is a wink from God, letting me know I will be okay, even when I’m not.
God’s provision on my side, I think of the story on my heart. The fated insta-love and he-saves-her tropes with flirty banter and unexpected depth is ready to be written. I understand from research that insta-love isn’t popular. But I wish people understood that loving someone is a choice you make, and some people make choices quicker than others. I’ve read thousands of stories online of people who met and were married within a month, and guess what? They’re still married and in love. I’m a firm believer of the power of fate, love, and choice, and so I’m taking a risk with my debut novel and demonstrating those concepts.
My female main character, however, has her doubts that a love like that can happen. Because as fully as I believe it can happen, I’m a bit of a hypocrite. Whirlwind loves happen all the time, but not for me. Unless I’m writing myself into a fictional world.
Taking a deep breath, I rub my hands together then tuck brown strands of hair behind my ears, preparing to type the title of the book into the first draft:Forgetting My Vacation Fling.
“You writin’ one ofthosebooks?”
I jump in my chair, throwing my hand over my racing heart. Bertha Simmons hobbles from behind me and helps herself to the empty chair across from me.
“You scared me half to death, Grannie,” I exclaim in exasperation, staring wide-eyed at the Black woman who insists the town call her Grannie. I don’t mind it because she genuinely is our wise, old sage. Grannie is a moth drawn to a flame when it comes to poor, lost souls. She houses them at her inn, making sure she shares the love of Jesus with them before they inevitably leave.
“Should always expect the unexpected, Meme, dear.” Grannie sighs, sinking into the wooden chair and resting her cane between her legs. She closes her eyes and leans her head back, that dark gray hair of hers going nowhere due to how gelled she’s got it in that signature bun of hers.
“But I was in the zone.”
“Writin’ a smutty book?”
I open my mouth in shock before closing it and replying. “No! What in the high heavens gave you that assumption? Do you read those books?”
“Forgetting My Vacation Fling?” Grannie opens her dark brown eyes and pegs me with a stare that says she might call my Pawpaw, the pastor, later. “Sounds like a title I’d pick up off the dollar store shelf, dear.”
Lost for words, I stare at her as she only shrugs and waves over the barista, my former student, Katie McBride. “Katie, dear. What do you think of when you hear the book title—”
“No, no, no!” I wave my hands as if that’s going to stop Grannie from saying those next words.As if.
“Forgetting My Vacation Fling?” Grannie finishes. I scowl at her while Katie flicks her eyes between us, probably wondering how she should answer or if this is a prank.
Katie scratches her neck before fiddling with her blonde, straight hair. “Uh…” She glances at me. I give her a pleading look.Do your old teacher a solid, huh, Katie?
She laughs and drops her hands, then shrugs. “Sounds like a book Miss Jenkins would tell us we’re too young to read.”
I groan into my hands as Katie buoyantly walks away. “Fine, Grannie. You’re right. But what am I supposed to do? People like those kinds of titles.”
We could play around with that, my little author,the familiar, masculine voice in my head speaks.
I mentally swat at the flirty man.Not now, Noah.
According to my research—and a bazillion books to prove it—readers enjoy titles that showcase a book’s trope. I think it’s a little cringeworthy, but to each their own. I need to reach a market and gain a readership before I smack them with my unhinged ideas for what a romantic comedycouldbe and how much heart can be interwoven into the spaces between humor and happiness.
Slapstick is great, but it’s even better with angst and depth.
As my Pawpaw would say,“Who’da thunk it?”
“Here’s a word of advice for you, dear.” Grannie stands and moves to place her wrinkled, warm hand on my shoulder. I meet her gaze, hanging on to every word out of her hot-pink-lipped mouth. “Let the world roll around in the same ole muck. Don’t be afraid to create somethin’ different.”
“Thank you, Grannie.” I place my hand on top of hers. “Truly.”
“Love you, Meme. Keep me updated on that story of yours. I’m readin’ the latest Ashton Ashley novel with my book club right now, and I can’t wait for the day we get to read yours.”
Gulping down the anxiety that rises like acid when I think of my townsfolk reading my book, I stand to hug Grannie. She teeters away with her cane, leaving me to my thoughts about creating new things and standing out in life.
At twenty-six—well, twenty-seven in a couple of months—I never imagined I’d move into a homey camper across from my parents’ place, but here I am. All because I hit my head in a jetskiing accident, which set me back in time, effectively shaking up my world. I’m still teaching English at Whitney High School even though I took the first quarter of the year off to give myself more time to heal, but I utilize every free moment available to me to work on writing. I hope to make it full-time one day. School lets out in just over a month, and I plan to complete this first novel over the summer come hell or high water.
I felt the Lord’s undeniable call—as I did before the accident—to write romance stories that unashamedly bring Him glory and honor while staying true to the human experience. To show humans in all of their nuanced successes and faults as they navigate an emotion so crucial to our existence: love. Even more, to portray reality in a way people can accept.
Through fiction.
