I adjust my posture and lie to myself as I tap away at the keyboard, trying to convince my brain that I deserve every award I’ve ever been given, every positive review I’ve ever received, every book I’ve ever sold.
But the voice that tells me I’m just a lucky fraud is always the loudest. I hate impostor syndrome. I hate that I believe the negative reviews over the positive. I hate that I’m questioning whether or not I can actually write a realistic book.
I glance at the screen and read over what little I’ve written.
The sterile scent of the interview room, a mix of old coffee and stale air, did little to calm the frantic beating of Reya’s heart. Across the table, Detective Miller’s voice was a low, steady rumble, asking questions about Sarah, about the last time Reya saw her. Each word felt like a fresh cut, tearing open the wound of losing her best friend. Yet, a part of Reya, a deeply unsettling and unwelcome part, registered the way the detective’s uniform stretched across his broad shoulders, the dark intensity of his eyes as he scribbled notes. She hated herself for it, for the fleeting spark of attraction that flickered within her, a betrayal of Sarah’s memory. How could her mind even entertain such thoughts when her world felt like it had shattered into a million pieces? The guilt was a heavy stone in her gut, compounding the grief she was already struggling to carry.
I stare at the sentences I just wrote, fully aware that my future self, probably still half asleep and fueled by lukewarm coffee, will declare them utter garbage and hit Delete.
This book isn’t so much a manuscript as it is a digital graveyard of my fleeting literary aspirations. Every word feels like a temporary squatter on the page, just waiting for its eviction notice.
I’m never going to finish this. At this rate, I’ll be stuck in this cabin-with-an-identity-crisis for an entire year, perpetually reworkingthe same five paragraphs while the cursor blinks at me like a tiny, judgmental oracle. If cursors could talk, mine would be chanting, “You suck—give up,” just to really drive the point home.
Not that being hermetically sealed in this cabin is actual torture. I do enjoy the solitude. Always have. It’s why I rent these places, transforming into a temporary lakeside hermit multiple times a year, all to shed the suffocating skin of Sacramento. The city, bless its heart, often feels like a giant, noisy concrete hug I never asked for.
But here? It’s quiet, peaceful, and the air smells like pine and fresh water. So, you know,there’s that.
I need to embrace the power of positive thinking. Focus on the fact that these little escapes aren’t just getaways; they’re my mental therapy.
I push away from my desk, the cursor still blinking its silent judgment, and wander into the kitchen. The scent of stale coffee remains in the air, a testament to my earlier, more optimistic writing session when I was convinced caffeine could cure me. But then I was reminded how much I hate the taste of coffee.
I cross to the front door and open it to breathe in a rush of fresh air. Outside, the world is a kaleidoscope of greens and browns, but all I can see are shadows in the dark. I see something move in the distance, so I squint, trying to pull it into focus.
I freeze when it moves again.
A shadow. A figure.
My heart leaps into my throat, a cold, sharp terror seizing me. I press myself against the door, my breath catching. This cabin is supposed to be my sanctuary, my escape. Not a stage for some backwoods slasher film.
But as the figure steps into a patch of moonlight, my terror deflates into a puff of embarrassed relief. It’s just Louie Longsetter.
He spots me standing in the doorway from his position by the lake and then gives me a friendly wave.
“Caught a raccoon in the trap!” he yells across the backyard. He holds up what looks like a floppy dead animal, and my sympathy for the poor creature seeps in. “Sorry if I scared you!”
I manage a weak, wobbly smile and a small wave back, my heart still trying to settle from its impromptu sprint. The lake is public—anyone can be out there—but I find it odd he would choose to be out there when he has a renter in this house. I hit the button to lower all the shades, and just as I’m about to turn away from the window, my phone buzzes, startling me again. I glance at the screen. Nora.
Shit.I forgot I was supposed to call her once I got settled.
“Hey,” I say, my voice still a little shaky.
“Okay, so my idea,” Nora says, her voice brimming with an almost frantic energy that buzzes through the phone line, a stark contrast to the quiet panic I just experienced.
“What now?” I ask, my brow furrowing. “Please tell me it’s not another macramé owl kick. My office can’t handle any more of your craft projects.”
Nora laughs, a bright, unburdened sound. “Not a macramé owl, though that’s not a bad idea. I was getting really good at those. No, I mean I have an idea to help your situation. But I need you to trust me.”
I sigh, a long, weary sound. I know that tone. It usually precedes a suggestion that will be either incredibly brilliant or utterly terrifying. “Nora, what are you talking about?”
“Your private group,” Nora begins, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “I think we should go live in it. Just us, and the few thousand people we have always trusted implicitly not to screenshot our bad hair days.”
My breath hitches. “Go live? Nora, are you insane? I am traumatized by people online. What if someone shares it outside the group?”
“So what if they do?” Nora’s voice is sharp now, cutting through my anxieties. “Honestly, Petra, you really have to stop caring so much. Do you think other famous authors care about social media? Do youthink they obsess over every comment, every insult, every word they write that could end up a potential screenshot?”
There’s a beat of silence on my end. Then, hesitantly, I say, “Um. Yes. Yes, I do think that.”
Nora actually snorts. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she concedes. “But it’s time, Petra. It’s been a year since you stopped doing the live videos with me. To the day.”
