1
SERAPHINA
Authors have two favorite words.
The End.
I typed them into the last page of my manuscript on a warm April afternoon, with the sun bright over the Pacific Ocean, and waited for the familiar rush of exhilaration that came after finishing a book. The sense that I’d done something important and meaningful. Work that fed my soul. If not that, then something. Relief, maybe. Satisfaction. Pride even? Instead, I felt nothing. Except a bone-weary exhaustion.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen. It pulsed at me, patient yet expectant, knowing I would be back tomorrow. Or was it demanding I return? Even if I didn’t want to?
My office windows were open, letting in the scent of lilacs and salty air. The full sweep of the Pacific was before me, ever-changing, unfolding in its varying hues of the ocean. A deep jade clung close to the cliffs where the water churned white against the rocks, fading to slate blue at the horizon and lit to silverwhere the afternoon sun broke through. The marine layer had burned off hours ago, leaving the air scrubbed clean and sharp. Light spilled across my desk, happy and hopeful, but couldn’t penetrate the numbness.
Outside, the planters on my patio were returning to life, greenery pushing through the damp soil after months of rain. The tulips were in full bloom, their red and apricot heads lifting bravely toward the sky, petals still tight from the chill. Beyond the patio railing, where my garden gave way to the cliff's edge, sea thrift clung stubbornly to the rock in small pink pom-poms, defiant against wind and salt. A scatter of California poppies flashed gold in the grass. Farther down the bluff, purple lupine had begun to rise in soft spikes. The twisted cypress that had been there since before the house was built stood at its permanent angle, shaped by decades of wind, refusing to succumb to the changes of season or the onslaught of time.
The world was renewing itself right on schedule. I, apparently, was not. Yes, I’d finished another book. Another love story with a happy ending. My sixty-first book. All those happily-ever-afters for my characters and never one for myself.
I pushed away from the desk and stood, my body heavy with a kind of exhaustion sleep wouldn’t fix.
And my office was in a state of disarray, kind of like me in my canary yellow lucky writing sweater and my thick red hair in desperate need of a good washing. Or, at the very least, a thorough brushing. My tangles had tangles. Three coffee mugs in various stages of abandonment were lined up on the desk. One with herbal tea, the others with cold coffee, cream separated and giving off a sour, just turned smell. Notebooks cluttered every surface including the floor beside my head, one of them splayed open to a page that said only the word momentum underlined three times and then nothing. A pair of readingglasses perched on top of my head, with another on the desk and yet another on the loveseat where I sometimes stole a cat nap.
I told myself I should tidy up before Tyler arrived home from baseball practice. Otherwise, he’d take it upon himself to do so. Before he’d left for school, he’d brought eggs, toast and a fresh cup of coffee to my office, the remnants of which were on the table next to the door. I’d been up for hours by that time, finishing up my final polish that always took more time than I thought it should.
Instead, I lay on the floor in the middle of the room and watched the blades of the ceiling fan turning slowly, round and round, almost hypnotic. But not enough to distract me from my last call with my editor.
“The marketing department’s driving a lot of decisions right now,” Sylvia had said. “They’re looking at the list. Thinking about who’s connecting with readers… and who isn’t.”
Who isn’t.I hadn’t asked the question. I hadn’t needed to.
“People want more angst. More edge. High concept hooks.”
“But that’s not what I write,” I’d said.
“Maybe it’s time to try something new. A pivot.”
A pivot. I had no idea what that meant.
“We need to connect to younger readers if we’re going to stay alive in the world of TikTok,” Sylvia said.
Meaning younger. Edgier. New. Not a thirty-nine-year-old author who wrote love stories people often described as emotional but comforting.
Comforting.
When had it become a bad word?
What if it had finally happened? What if I’d lost my touch? Maybe my best books were behind me. Or worse, what if I was never as good as people thought? Maybe I’d just gotten lucky. Sixty times in a row.
A tear drop slipped down the side of my face and into my ear. I was not a crier. I was tough. But that conversation had me reeling. What was I if not a bestselling author? A mediocre mom. A woman no man wanted. My work meant everything to me, and I felt it slipping away.
I’m not sure how much time passed, but I dozed off, waking to the sound of Tyler coming up the stairs. I should sit up, act energetic, so he didn’t worry, but I didn’t have it in me. He knocked softly on the door. “Mom, you okay?”
“Yeah, come on in.” I remained on my back.
He appeared above me, his brow creasing in worry, holding his glove against his chest like he used to do with his stuffed rabbit. Time was snatching away my little boy, day by day.
“Are you sick or did you finish?” He was dressed in his practice jersey, cleats in one hand and his hair damp at the temples under his hat.
“Finished.”
