I’m not sure how Esme and Noah are going to accomplish those things, but I trust God’s guidance as He directs my pen—er, fingers. I’m typing this draft.
When I told my former therapist about my novel idea and how strongly and vividly I could see it playing out, she suggested it could be a memory, but I don’t think so. If it were a memory, it would have come back by now and I wouldknow. I would feel it as if the events happened to me, not as an outsider looking in.
No, this story is simply a tale of enduring love, and honestly, it’s a reflection of the love the Father has for His own. He has loved me so well despite my constant questioning, fit-throwing, and doom-spiraling of despair as I’ve tried to piece my life back together after the accident. He wants me to share the message that love—true love—is ultimately given and received through Him alone.
Losing three years of my life has taught me a lot, but most importantly, I’ve learned to live with open hands. Because only the God who gives and takes away can decide my fate. I’m mere mortal flesh who withers and wastes. He is enduring. Eternal.
“Oh, you sweet fictional version of me,” I say to my blinking cursor, “you’re going to have a beautiful character arc.”
And then I type my first sentence from her point of view:A thousand smiles can’t hide the darkness underneath my face.
As I stare at the sentence, something doesn’t sit right. It’s too dark for fictional Esme. She’s upset about being cheated on and left at the altar, yeah, but she realized it was a good thing he was out of her life.
I delete it and try again:When I look at him, it’s the same feeling I get when I watch sun rays reflecting off of raindrops.
Reading the line over, I groan. It’s too much too soon. Intense and all-encompassing despite the happy vibe. The couple hasn’t even met yet!
One more time:Not even the blisters on the soles of my feet could ruin this moment of pure bliss.
I delete it all again. Nothing is sitting right.
I knew from the off-set the story starts on a beach. I chose to use Bora Bora to pay homage to the place that siphoned my memories. But now what? My outline says to introduce the characters in their ordinary lives, but how?
Fictional Esme is from a lively college town up north called Juniper Grove, Mississippi, and Noah is from the town that neighbors Juniper Grove: Hartfield. They meet while vacationing in Bora Bora, which is funny because they lived thirty minutes apart from one another the entire time. Esme is there because she was left at the altar—which apparently happened to me and is why I was on a honeymoon alone when I lost my memories—and Noah is there to write a book (because who doesn’t love a male romance author lead?).
I even have the meet-cute planned, which involves an almost-kidnapping. Even though I am writing a rom-com, I can’t seem to stop myself from going dark in not-so-subtle ways.
I haveallof that figured out, but what did the two of them do before meeting on the island? What was ordinary life like for them? Their day to day? Why is the mundane so difficult to imagine?
In reality, for me, from what I can remember up to twenty-three, where a black hole sucks time until I’m waking up in a hospital bed, I led a predictable, boring existence. I wasn’t happy. Not really.
But what was Noah doing? Because all I can think is that Noah Ashton’s full-time job is being hot, making women swoon, and writing words that will melt even the hardest of souls. Noah Ashton doing something mundane?Ha.
Noah? Give me a little bit of something, please?
Silence. Of course he doesn't answer when I need him to.
“Ugh.” I throw my head back and run my hands through my oily, straight strands.
“You okay, Meme?” Mrs. Gloria asks from the table behind me. I turn to address the elderly woman. Her kind, light eyes and shiny, white hair bring a smile to my face. Laugh lines paint a picture of a life of happiness and joy. I hope I age as gracefully and beautifully as she has.
“I’m good, Mrs. Gloria.”
“You were mumbling to yourself again.”
I blush. “Sorry, Mrs. Gloria.”
“Don’t apologize, Meme. You just sounded perturbed.”
“More like frustrated,” I reply. “Struggling to figure out a few things for this story.”
Mrs. Gloria smiles. “Anything I can help with? I’m a good listener if nothing else. We used to meet and chat over recipes before your accident.”
A familiar pang of memories forgotten churns in my stomach. “Thanks, Mrs. Gloria. But I’ll figure it out. Let’s meet up later in the week to talk about our recent kitchen explorations?”
She nods her head, a mile-wide smile overtaking her face, and then turns her attention back to her grandkids.
In my head, the story has already written itself, and I’m itching to skip to the falling-in-love story beat. It’s going to be flirty, reckless, and everything I’m not, because the Esme of the story is a version of myself I wish I could be.
