Page 109 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“And now?” I ask.

She looks up at the Ferris wheel, lights turning slowly against the night sky.

“Now I don’t know,” she admits. “I don’t know if I’ve been playing small. Or if I’ve just been scared.”

There it is.

Fear.

The thing that’s been driving both of us.

I stop walking.

She stops too.

“Clara,” I say, and wait until she looks at me.

“You’re already a writer,” I tell her. “The platform doesn’t change that. The format doesn’t change that. If you want to write books, you can.”

She gives me a look that’s half skeptical, half hopeful. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” I counter gently. “It’s not easy. But it’s simple.”

She studies me like she’s trying to figure out if I actually believe what I’m saying.

“I hid behind anonymity for years,” I admit. “Because I didn’t want anyone judging my work against my name. I told myself I was protecting the art.”

“And were you?” she asks.

I shake my head slowly. “I was protecting myself.”

Her breath catches just slightly.

“Don’t do that,” I tell her. “Don’t shrink your dream because you’re afraid it won’t be perfect.”

She goes quiet.

Then, softly, “You really read my blog?”

I smile. “Yep. I even have favorite lines.”

Her mouth parts.

“Which ones?” she asks, almost afraid to hear.

“There’s a post you wrote,” I say. “About standing in the middle of Times Square and realizing you’d never felt more alone.”

Her eyes widen.

“You said the lights were so bright they erased the stars,” I continue. “And you wondered if that’s what success does to people. Makes them glow so hard they forget what the dark looks like.”

She just stares at me.

“That wasn’t just a blog post,” I say. “That was a chapter.”

The silence between us shifts.

Not heavy.