Today’s story was first published on October 22, 2022. It will be brand new to almost all of you.
See you at the end, where there are more words waiting.
Walter Riley rose at 7:15 AM, ate his breakfast and got dressed.
“I’m going to finish my novel today,” he said to his wife, as she fussed over the buttons of his cardigan sweater.
“I know you are,” she said. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” he replied.
He gathered his research materials and arranged them carefully into a leather briefcase with his initials engraved in the handle. He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, winked at his wife, and stepped outside.
Walter Riley walked to his office, which stood about a quarter mile east of his front door. By now the sun was over the trees, warming his face as he smiled at the vivid images turning in his mind. Crucial moments in the life of his protagonist. A man he called Sol. A man so like himself, Walter Riley often lost sight of which life he was thinking about. His own. Or Sol’s.
Walter Riley loved Sol with all his heart. Even when he made terrible choices. Even when he said cruel things and lost sight of what mattered. Walter Riley knew where Sol came from. Knew what he had been through, what he had survived, what rewards he had earned. And what losses he had suffered.
Sol was a hero. Or if not a hero, a villain worthy of redemption. Worthy of love.
And peace.
For months, Walter Riley had put Sol through hell.
Gave him a quest, a journey riddled with obstacles. Gave him a desire so rich it threatened to consume him. And a possession so precious, to lose it would surely kill him.
He made Sol fight. And lose. He made Sol fight harder. And lose more. He forced him to fight for his life. And lose everything.
Sol was tired now.
And so was Walter Riley.
He sat down in his chair and cracked his knuckles over the keyboard. He took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Today,” he thought to himself, “the fighting ends. Today, I let him win.”
Walter Riley poured himself into his work over the next several hours, pushing Sol to the limit, pressing him onward toward his goal. Fueling his desire to win at any cost.
When lunch appeared beside him on the desk, Walter Riley did not stop writing. He was too close to the end to stop now. His fingers were swollen and his back ached, but he was not ready to quit. He worked long into the afternoon. Until he could feel the sun on the back of his neck.
It was the press of a hand on his shoulder at 4:15 PM, and a drop of cool water on his brow, that finally broke him out of his trance.
“I need to finish,” he said to his wife.
“It’s raining,” she said. “Come inside.”
Walter Riley looked at the screen in front of him.
Black. Void. Empty of words.
His heart raced, and he shut his eyes over the emptiness and searched for the words in his mind. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found them, waiting. He focused on the cursor, hovering in limbo, waiting for instruction. For his final word on Sol and his journey to peace.
“Five minutes?” he asked his wife.
His throat tightened as warm tears collected in his eyes. They mixed with drops of rain, now pelting his cheeks and the top of his head.
His wife sighed. “Five minutes. I love you.”
“And I love you,” he replied.
She left him alone.
Walter Riley dug into himself with what little resolve he had left in his body. He reached out to Sol and asked, “What do you want?”
And Sol answered. Loudly. And without hesitation. “I want to rest.”
Walter Riley nodded. He set his fingers over the keyboard and typed with trembling fingers.
-The End-
The tears flowed, heavy and fast, as Walter Riley wept over his life’s work. His masterpiece. His finished novel. He shivered inside his damp clothes as he stood up from his desk. He shoved his papers hastily into the quilted bag his wife gave him. The one with his initials sewn into it. Only one strap remained intact, and he twisted it around his wrist and hugged the bag to his chest as he walked home.
His wife had dinner waiting for him, which he was not hungry for. She understood.
She walked him to his room and helped him undress.
“I finished my novel today,” he said proudly, as she fussed over the buttons of his pajamas.
“Good for you, honey. That’s wonderful.”
“And I love you,” he replied.
She ran a dry towel over the stringy remains of his gray hair and tucked him into bed. He asked her for a kiss, but she patted his hand instead.
She switched off the lights and walked out of his room.
Then she walked through the common area, switching off lamps as she went. She folded up blankets, cleared away cups and saucers, gathered wadded up tissues, returned books to shelves.
She collected her coat from the breakroom and stopped by the reception desk to say goodnight.
“Heading home?” her co-worker asked, pausing the movie he was watching to stay awake.
“Yes,” she said. “I need you to call the Murphy family.”
Her co-worker’s eyes softened. “What should I tell them?”
She fussed over the buttons on her jacket and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“Tell them Sol finished his novel.”
Welcome back to Stock Fiction, the self-led walk through fire I started seventeen months ago as an experiment. A test of my creative abilities, momentum, courage, and tenacity. I’m a different writer than I was when I first wrote this story. In fact, I discovered several ways it could be strengthened with the simplest of revisions, thanks to wisdom gained from fellow writers during my time on this platform.
Stock Fiction is also a different publication than it was a year and change ago. It has evolved to feature a stronger and more confident voice.
A stronger and more confident writer.
I chose to replay The Novelist today because it seemed fitting, given I’m about to embark on a months’ long campaign to ensnare a literary agent for one of my novels. The part of me that knows how the publishing industry works (or doesn’t) has realistically low expectations. The part of me that wants to break stuff, and change the rules, and prove a few people wrong is optimistic.
The reason I know I’m ready to do this now, when I wasn’t before, is because I’ve reached a point in my writing journey where I don’t actually care if every single agent I tirelessly research and dance for rejects me. I mean, it’d be cool if that didn’t happen, but I’ve already decided it won’t change the way I feel about my books or make me believe they’re less good or less special or less worthy of a reader’s time.
I’ll simply have proof that THAT particular road is closed to me. But there are other roads. And I’ve got some time. And a lot of ideas. And a willingness to walk through more fire and try new things.
And for the record, the strong and confident firewalker speaking right now didn’t get to this point without A LOT of help from fellow artists, humorists, novelists, poets, musicians, encouragement specialists, and friends. I could make a list, but as always, I trust the people who would be on it already know who they are because they’re reading this and saying, “Yeah. She’s OBVIOUSLY talking about me.”
And if you are saying that, you’re right. And thank you.
On the horizon…
An awesome interview about my funny AF side.
Bourbon cask aged fiction. For the chocolate lovers.
Episode 2 of my new podcast venture, Talk Fiction.
Thanks to all who listened to the pilot. Couldn’t have asked for a warmer reception. Or a more charming co-pilot.
See you next time, friends. Thank you so much for being here!
Interesting story. To each of us, the only true reality is what's in our minds. That works well enough, when we all mostly imagine the same things. Sometimes, we don't.
Congrats on the agent search, Meg!
I'm intrigued by your insistence to let go of the anxiety of whether or not you'll be rejected in the process. I had a similar conversation with someone recently. I said that yes, it would be nice to get the novel I'm working on published. But that's not the point. The point is for me to *write* the book. Then, I can hustle it, find an agent, find a publisher, etc. But the *outcome* is out of my hands. So although I'm writing the best book I can, how it is received isn't really up to me.
I'm thinking this might make for a great post. Any tips on how you got there?