“Tell me what’s been going on with you,” Sadie laughed, needing to change the subject.
“I went on a date the other night and it ended up being one of those creepers who doesn’t look one bit like his profile photo,” she replied, making a disgusted face that caused Sadie to snort. “I’m thinking of giving up and just getting a cat.”
“No, you can’t do that,” Sadie said, trying to give Jess a pep talk. “You are a brilliant, successful editor. There’s nothing you can’t do.”
Jess’s smile faltered at the mention of her job title, and she looked away for a moment.
“I know that look,” she said softly. “What’s going on, Jess?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” Jess replied, and Sadie raised an eyebrow at her friend’s face on the screen. Jess hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Marketing is getting antsy about Corbyn’s book. They’re talking about pulling the budget if we don’t show substantial progress soon. They’re looking for someone to blame if this fails… and that someone would be me.”
Sadie could hear the stress underlying Jess’s typically confident tone. This wasn’t just about Corbyn’s book; it was about the entire publishing ecosystem balancing on a knife’s edge.
“We need this book,” Jess continued, her voice dropping. “I’ve been assuring them that if they’re patient, he’ll deliver for so long they no longer believe me.”
“I promise you, I’m working on it,” Sadie assured her.
Jess nodded, letting out a slow breath. “Get some sleep, Sadie. You sound like you’ve been running on fumes. Tomorrow’s another day.”
“Yes, boss,” Sadie replied, the familiar banter a comfort.
“And Sadie?” Jess’s voice caught her before she could end the call. “You’ve got this. I wouldn’t have sent you if I didn’t believe that completely.”
The call ended, leaving Sadie in the stillness of her room. She couldn’t help but replay what Jess had told her about the marketing cuts. So much was tied up in making sure this book succeeded.
Glancing at the bedside table, she looked at the leather journal Jess had given her a few days after she had left Nate. It had been a silent challenge from her best friend that she needed to reclaim everything Nate had stolen from her, especially her writing.
She picked it up, trailing her fingers along the leather spine, hesitating for a moment before reaching for a pen from her bag. Taking a breath, she let herself write whatever came to mind. She didn’t worry about structure or flow. She just let the words pour out for the first time in years.
It was nearly an hour later when she finally stopped, looking down at the pages she had filled with her thoughts. It wasn’t much, and to anyone else the ramblings wouldn’t make sense, but it was a start.
February 12, 2025
-Sadie-
Sadie stepped out of The Roaring Stag into a crisp February morning, appreciating the fresh air. After nearly a week of trying to work on Corbyn’s manuscript in his living room, her shoulders ached. He had made some progress, and her mind had begged for a break to explore the village.
She looked down the street, taking in the picturesque village. In the distance, she could see red brick cottages, smoke rising from their chimneys. Across the street were several Tudor-style buildings that housed various local shops. There was even a small bookshop a few doors down, where she had stopped the previous evening and fallen into an easy conversation with the man who owned it.
She wandered past the butcher’s shop, its red awning waving in the breeze. Sausages and cuts of meat sat in the window, and the sign above the door readWilliams Family Butchers—Est. 1937.Next door, the tea shop’s windows were steamed up, shapes of people hunched over mugs barely showing through the haze. The tea shop was even older, serving the village since 1908.
The village felt both timeless and lived-in. Sadie pulled her notebook from her bag and quickly noted:Great Missenden—time moves differently here. Not slower, just… different.
As she returned the notebook to her bag, her gaze caught on a splash of pastel blue further down the street. The Roald Dahl Museum seemed to call to her, and her feet carried her toward it. She paused outside, studying the quirky façade. A small smile curved her lips, and she decided there was no better way to spend her day off than to explore the creative space of an author who truly understood the magic of something unexpected.
Inside, children were darting between exhibits, parents trailing behind them. This place celebrated imagination rather than the hushed reverence of a more traditional museum, and the energy was infectious.
Sadie drifted through the galleries, occasionally pausing to look more closely at photographs or read some of the papers on display, items from his childhood. She wondered if he had foreseen what his words would become. Or had he simply been a boy with a pencil and a head full of wonderings?
She continued into the Solo Gallery, where her steps slowed involuntarily. Dahl’s Writing Hut stood before her. It was a meticulous replica of the space where he’d created worlds. Yellow pencils sharpened to stubs lay arranged beside sheets of paper, as if waiting for genius. A foil ball fashioned from chocolate wrappers perched like a strange metallic planet among the ordered chaos of the desk.
Sadie’s throat tightened. This was what a writer’s life looked like. It wasn’t glamorous or extraordinary in its components, yet the space felt sacred.
She lowered herself into the green armchair that had been set up for visitors, its worn fabric cradling her as she tried to imagine what it must have been like for him to sit for hours just creating. Her eyes fluttered closed momentarily, and she couldalmost picture Dahl leaning over his writing board, scribbling the first lines ofCharlie and the Chocolate Factory.
It had been months, maybe years, if she was being completely honest with herself, since she’d written anything. Editing was safe. Editing was useful. Editing hadn’t left her vulnerable to critiques or led her to believe her writing wasn’t worthy enough to be read by anyone. But sitting here, she felt that urge to put words on a page that were her own. To create rather than correct.
In the museum shop, she paused before a display of notebooks and pens, tempted to add to her collection. Instead, she picked up a Village Trail map from a stack near the register.
