Spinning back to my table, I grab my empty coffee mug and head to the kitchen for a refill. It is a beautiful day out, the afternoon sun pouring down in chunky blocks of warmth. Starting a new cup of coffee after pouring over the several pod choices, I spin from my coffee corner—the very first thing I unpacked as it is a necessity—to grab some creamer.
“Oh! A coffee meet cute that goes wrong! I will let Bettie get a taste of romance with the barista.”
Rushing back to the drafting table, I scribble the idea down. Rushing back to my coffee as it begins to brew, I am smiling.I love a burst of inspiration.It is welcome after weeks ofnot a single spark of an idea.
“Bettie needed a break as much as Piper did,” I declare to no one.
Stirring my coffee with a heavy touch of creamer, I think about how Bettie’s life has often paralleled my own. Bettie Buttons was the first artistic creation I ever shared with the world. Back in college, I sold a comic strip to a local paper for some extra cash. To my complete shock, it took off with a weekly storyline that paid the rent.
Bettie Buttons is an amalgamation of myself, my mother, and my sister, Susie. With her dark hair and big button eyes, she looks like mother. Bettie got her kind heart and patience from Susie. Her cynical views and stubbornness are all me. Writing her stories over the years, drawing her experiences as my own unfold has in a way shaped who I am as a person.
By the time I graduated with a liberal arts degree, I figured Bettie’s time was over. Until my mentor and favorite professor sent the cute storylines of a young girl figuring life out to her friend at the Big Sky Post. It turns out some folks still read the newspaper, and my little slice of sunshine Bettie Buttons’ had a home in their Post.
“Now to show Bettie growing up,” I mutter to myself.
Just as Bettie had finished college and gone to the city, I had done the same. But the city was just not for me. It was too loud, too crowded, and too full of distractions. Not to mention disappointments. I’d drawn stories featuring Bettie moving to the city, trying to find loveandfind herself, and failing. Again, her growth, her life changes paralleled my own.
The move here to Ashwood had featured in last week’s storyline. Though I created my own little locale as I often did for Bettie’s adventures. It had the same quaint downtown, the same sweet locals, and the very same brood of beautiful, boastfulmountain men.
Glancing out the window overlooking Main Street from my place over the small Ashwood Chronicle, I flush. Out on the street half a dozen of those hot mountain men huddle on the corner. Getting coffee or grabbing a bagel to start their morning chopping wood or ruining panties, whatever they do best. Tipping forward, I laugh at myself when my nose presses against the cool pane of glass as I leer at the men from a safe vantage point.
“Do they create these men in some hot, grumpy, muscle-bound factory or what? Oh, I wonder if Bettie would mind a meet cute with one of them?”
Laughing again, I sip at my coffee, cursing as the hot java burns my tongue. Standing at the window, I watch the men on the street with a creative eye. They’re lumberjacks, fire fighters, and police men—oh my—and each is hotter than the last. In their uniform of perfectly worn in jeans, plaid shirts, boots, and muscles to spare, they’re sure nice to look at.
There is something so different about these men from the men I knew in the city. There they were all about flash, shiny, empty boys who took all they could from anyone who let them. Here, I see these men hold the door open for old women or help a lady with an arm full of kids load her groceries. They seem intimidating in a way, but I watch them now laughing with each other, calling hellos to shop owners, or greeting one another.
“It seems a little unfair they seem so...nice. How can they be that hotandnice? Next thing you know, they’ll love puppies and rom coms too.”
Chuckling, I turn from the window to get back to work. I have a storyline to finish for next week’s paper. If I’m being honest, I agree with the editor of the Post that her story may be reaching its conclusion. I am not sure where I can take my character or her story beyond growing up and becoming anadult. I’ve struggled for the past two weeks to create a fresh storyline.
Coming to Ashwood was not just a story I was telling. It was a brand-new chapter in my own life. I was burnt out by the city, by stilted friendships and empty relationships. Growing tired of being let down, of going nowhere with romance or friendships, I decided to make a change.
Moving here is just the first step towards change. I’ve been taking more chances lately, being less cautious. Last week, I spoke to the friendly butcherandthe sweet mail lady. That’s a first. Striking up conversation with someone isnotsomething I do. No, I stay in my corner of the world, doors locked, with people safely on the other side.
“What would Bettie have to say about how afraid I am of the world?”
Bettie is my way of living the life I want. She can be brave, bold, she can take chances, demand respect, and call for attention. All things I couldneverdo. In Big Sky, I was a little minnow in a big pond. I never dared to venture beyond the shallow waters, never tried to take risks or call for attention or respect. I had no idea how to do it in real life.
On paper, Bettie Buttons is as big and bold as I want her to be. Being her alter ego in real life…it’s not so simple. Out in the real world I stumble over my own feet, laugh too loud at awful jokes, as I mess up the punchline, and wear a wardrobe made up entirely of retro thrifted pieces.
“Susie says it’s cute,” I mutter as if I have to explain myself.
Going back to my drawing board, I ponder about the idea I scribbled down earlier. Spinning from the incomplete storyline with half-drawn scribbles, I turn on the pill speaker sitting on the windowsill. Smiling as some old school Dolly Parton fills the small loft, I spin back once again.
“Sing it for me, Dolly,” I call out, humming along with thesoft melodies of some of the greatest music ever recorded.
Focusing back on the storyline I need to complete within the next five days, I let the music be my muse. I draw a few word bubbles that I will fill in with clever banter later. Glancing out the window overlooking main street, I sing along with Dolly as I wait for my creativity to flow.
“Meet cute with a mountain man,” I remind myself of my idea.
Watching several such men wander out of the coffee shop on the corner, I take a moment to let the story unwind in my head. Bettie will have just moved to a new, small, cute town much like Ashwood. While out on a walk to learn the town, she will see these men just as I am seeing them now. One of them will see her, recognize her as his dream woman and go to her with intentions on sweeping her off her feet.
“Am I writing her story or the one I wish would happen to me?”
Chuckling at myself, I start drawing. A room of boxes, some empty, others half full with big, thick writing on each side.Bathroom. Kitchen. Office Stuff. Bettie stands in the middle of it all, nursing her favorite iced coffee with too much sugar. Wondering if she made the right choice in coming to this small town.
Sitting down to write in her trust journal—a tool I use to show her inner monologue as well as show how relatable she is—she decides she has made the right choice. It was time for a change. Not just for her surroundings but for her choices. Time to stop holding back from all life has to offer.
