The Writer

The Writer

Postcards from Paris Book One

by

Rebekah Dodson

Version 1.1

Book I: The Writer

Book II: The Runaway

Book III: The Dependent

Book IV: The Independent

Book V: The Choice

Book VI: Heart and Soul

©2014 Deckard Publishing and Rebekah Dodson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please support authors by purchasing only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely from coincidence.

For Derek, thanks for helping me realize that sometimes, the pen is mightier than the sword. Without you, I would have never picked up either. You brought me back to life as a writer when I thought that side had died. Your stories inspired me to write my own, and this would have never happened without you.

Thank you to my family for putting up with me during the course of this novel: through many re-writes, edits, reading aloud, and discussions that helped me shape this story. Through late nights, early mornings, and long days. Through the times I was stuck where you helped me get through it. To my loving husband David, who learned that he's especially sexy in those moments when he vacuums and does the dishes, so I can sit down and write.

And above all, special thanks to Deckard Publishing, who took a chance on me, and gave my work value. You changed my life with your unwavering dedication and hard work.

Rochelle

I never really considered myself a writer.

Well, at least not until today.

If you had stopped me on the street, I would have said I was a "cultural expert" or maybe a "journalist," but that really just depended on the day I was having.

Okay, maybe a little to do with my levels of coffee intake, as well.

I really didn't even like writers.

When I thought of writers, it left a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted to spit that word like so much bile that had built up in the recesses of my stomach. The problem with writers is they lived their life by the pen; they crafted words into stories so unrealistic that the public would be caught in an unreal fantasy. I preferred to stay in touch with the world around me. For years I had written of people, events, and businesses. Each one had touched my heart - from the bakery that donated to the local homeless mission, to the church that fed single mothers. Over the years, I had traveled many places, met many people, and written many stories, but all of them in the realm of the here and now.

I didn't want to end up like one of those writers, who never lived, loved, and laughed outside their stories. They were cooped up in offices, weaving snores onto paper, and never had a chance to experience the outside world.

So my life had taken me down the path of journalism, where I could maintain my own concept of reality. I ran my hands over the smooth cherry wood desk in my new office, and reality was slowly hitting me. Senior Editor, I tried the words in my mouth. They tasted salty and sweet, layered with years of hard work, tears, and the agony of building this business into something successful. I actually had staff now I had to look after, to guide them through this process of being what the world called a "journalist." I wanted them to know that the world was wrong, and it didn't have to be boring starched shirts and stiff ties. It was about having fun, writing, and showing the world what we were made of.

I was going to change how the world saw me.

Little did I know, Elijah would change how I saw the world.

And it all started with a little postcard.

The problem with journalists was every single one of us had an article that we were afraid to share with the world.

My team didn't have those inhibitions.

"Let's do an article on food for the super bowl."

I looked across the table and met the crystal blue eyes of Elijah, my assistant editor and lead sports writer. Impeccably dressed as usual in a pinstriped gray suit, his red tie slightly skewed around his collar, he returned my stare with the slightest of winks in his left eye. The light in his eyes danced mischievously. I wondered what he was up to.

"I disagree," Marion said. My designated "foodie" journalist always had a quip. "I think that's a sexist piece, because it insinuates that women will be cooking the food."

"Oh boy, here she goes!" Elijah called, and slapped the paperwork in front of him. "You just never shut up, do you, M?"

Could we ever conduct our weekly meetings without those two getting into it? Elijah kicked me lightly under the table, and winked again. I rolled my eyes at him and kicked him, hard. He pouted, grabbed my coffee, and took a swig.

I hated when he did that.

"Well why don't we ask – hey, where is Alicia?" Marion asked. She flipped her cinnamon red hair over her shoulder. I shrugged as she met my gaze.

I hadn't seen her since before lunch. But I hadn't paid attention. When Elijah wanted us to sneak out and grab coffee it had to be planned to the –

Alicia suddenly rushed into the board-room-slash-editor's-office for the meeting. "Sorry I'm late, folks. Spilled my coffee at lunch and had to run home to change."

This was one of those times I was so glad we all worked in a small town. "Running home" for any of our staff members usually meant it was 4 blocks away. She plopped down heavily next to Elijah, the chair creaking under her slim frame, and placed a peck on his cheek. "Hi, baby," she whispered. He gave her his typical look of adoration, running a hand through his cropped blond hair.

I looked down at my papers, shuffling them absently. Why did he have to look at her like that, in front of me? This meeting wasn't going as planned.

I cleared my throat. "I actually like the idea of the super bowl food," I had to keep my winks to myself, as I looked from Elijah to Marion. "I really think you two should collaborate on it."

Elijah started to object, but he knew I would overrule him. Our games of interruption was
irritating. I stopped him before he could begin. "Let's try some guy recipes AND girl recipes, so it's not from any sexist point of view. We could do buffalo chicken cheese dip, and football shaped cupcakes." I could tell Marion was thinking it over. "Marion, Talk to
Jase at the bakery and see if that's something they can do, so maybe we can tie a local business into that article."

Elijah was still staring into Alicia's eyes like a love sick puppy. "Eli!" I snapped. I bit back a sharp remark. Men! "Why don't you interview a couple of the guys on the team and ask them what they like to eat for super bowl? That will help Marion come up with some recipes, ideas, and local businesses she can work with." He nodded, jotting down notes as I talked. Figures, now his head was back in the journalist game.

"Rochelle." God, I hated the sound of Alicia's voice as she addressed me. "I was thinking we should also do an article on the health benefits of inter mural sports," Alicia said. Always the health nut... but isn't that why I had hired her?

"Yeah, that sounds great," I said, coolly. "Look into the local schools and the different types of sports they offer, and go from there." I glanced around at my staff, nodding. "Okay everyone, not bad. Let's meet back here about one o'clock on Wednesday for the weekly check-in. Meeting adjourned." I banged my little gray gavel, one of Elijah's gag gifts he had given to me the first day in our new office. He said that all the big bosses had them, and it was my sign I had "arrived".

I watched my team push away from the table, stack their paperwork and notes, and leave the room. Elijah followed steadily behind Alicia, turning to give me a wink as he exited.

Always the wink.

When they all left, I put my head in my hands and sighed. I was doomed.

I've known Elijah forever, of course. About 10 years ago, we sat in Psychology 201 together, never knowing what the world held for us. We were two kids, getting a late start on our college ambitions, but a start none the less. We quickly learned that he his talent was tests, and mine was writing, and our alliance formed. While he quizzed me on study questions for tests, I edited and reviewed his papers; marking errors with my red pen and jotting in notes for improvement.

I loved editing, even then.

Our study sessions were serious time commitments, despite both working full time together at a local coffee shop (look, it made our coffee addiction cheaper, okay?). Often it was hours into the night, long after the crickets had ceased their midnight declarations. We often huddled over steaming bowls of salty Top Ramen (he rarely had anything else in his confirmed bachelor's pad), discussing Freud's analytic theory, Pavlov's dog, and the issues of reaffirmation. Penciling in notes with some metal music in the background, the graphite moved rapidly across the page with a silent ambition.

Just a couple of college students, never wanting it to end, but we knew someday it would. We just never talked about it.

So there we were, in his tiny living room of a one bedroom house. The remains of our pepperoni and olive pizza sat between us, one piece left but both of us full. Outside, the lawn was overgrown, the fence was broken in places and had bent chain link in others, and some of the windows had bars on them. I always felt safe with him, so I thought it gave the house character. How could anyone not feel safe? He was built like a blond haired, blue eyed Hulk. At 6'5 and 250lbs, it was easy to imagine his life as a star quarterback of the varsity team just 4 years ago, but his love for pizza and bologna had certainly taken its toll.

If there was one thing we had in common, it was certainly our love of food. When I was with Elijah, I never had to worry about being criticized for how much I ate; never had to suffer the ridicule of overbearing looks and comments about my weight. Yes, I knew I outweighed Elijah by probably 50lbs. Did I care? Not really. Did Elijah care? Sometimes, but only when I was too busy to spot him at the gym. In the awkward post-High school years that determine your self-image, I was still figuring out who I was – and my size was my identity.

I sat on a beanbag, leaning over the upturned cardboard box that served as our table. He reclined on the love seat, surrounded by a sea of pastels: green, pink, and blue handouts from the three classes we shared were spread on the seat next to him, on the floor, and few on the card table that served as the dining area.

"Explain Freud's analytic theory issues of id, ego, and the super ego, and give examples of each," Elijah asked me the test prompt, causing me to look up from his sports medicine paper he was writing on the effective use of anti-inflammatory drugs. He looked over his thick glasses at me. I suppressed a smile; remembering he wouldn't be caught dead in public with them on, relying solely on his contacts during the school days.

I thought they made him look like a sophisticated scholar.

And even back then, a little sexy.

"Id, set of irrational structures, ego, the rational logical component, and super ego, the moralizing function –"

"Iceberg concept?" He interrupted me, intentionally.

"God, jerk," I laughed. "The iceberg concept denotes that the id floats above water, with the ego below it. The super ego rests at the bottom tip. An example would be shopping – the id is impulsive, and really wants to buy those pair of shoes. But the ego says, 'No, you can't afford it.' The super ego takes this a step farther and cajoles: 'Instead of buying those shoes, you should donate the money to charity instead.'"

"Good," he laughed, with a twinkle in his eye. "Shopping? Ro, geez. You're like the least girly-girl I know. You hate shopping."

I laughed. "I hate shoes, too." I look down; realizing we were both wearing our DC's again – his red and black, mine blue and white. What a symbol of our contrasts. I hated sports, he adored them. I hated shopping, and he was a picky consumer. But we both loved psychology, and had a passion for writing.

Our eyes met. It wasn't the first time in the two months since we had met that we shared a look. Call it mutual understanding, a silent communiqué of words, thoughts, feelings. Blue meets blue, we were locked in a silent embrace.

It was over faster than we could both blink; I often wondered about the meaning behind our exchanged glances.

My phone had buzzed then. I slid the screen to access the new text message. With inhuman speed, I typed a quick response.

Elijah, always so observant of my silence – of course, it was a rare occurrence. "Zeke?" he said, that one word holding so many unspoken emotions.