Eleanor is plagued by a dream of herself that she has not yet managed to actualise.
It visits her most mornings, while the kettle boils, the version of herself she keeps coming back to, the one who writes before dawn, sitting at a wooden desk while a mug of tea cools beside her and words spread across the page. That woman lives in a house smelling faintly of cedar and old books, where quiet work happens. Her own novels fill a shelf – novels the reviewers call assured and luminous.
Eleanor, on the other hand, lives in a house that smells of toast and tea, where crumbs, spilled juice, and scattered blocks demand her attention. Her desk is the kitchen table, her laptop fighting for space amongst the mail, the Aldi catalogues, and her grandson’s Elsa costume. Drafts are stacked in manila folders, marked up by people who, she has to believe, mean well in their critique. Lovely imagery. This doesn’t work. Show, don’t tell. You don’t need this section. Two pats, then the slaps. Or more often, multiple slaps with few pats.
The stings linger.
Her agent says the publishers see “promise”, but not enough to take a risk on her. The competitions reply with polite variations on no: “You have a distinct voice … there are moments of real beauty here … we received many excellent entries, unfortunately your submission did not stand out in the current field … we wish you success placing it elsewhere … we hope you’ll consider submitting again next year.” Eleanor is familiar with the rhythm of rejection, the preamble as softener, then the stinging dismissal. She imagines the editors, judges, unseen decision-makers standing behind an iron gate, steadfastly refusing to hand over their giant key. Instead, she pushes her work through the bars and listens intently for the sound of approval.
Silence.
Yesterday, she found a story she wrote when she was twenty-three, tucked deep into one of the folders. She read it and winced, then told herself to be kind – it was from forty years ago, after all. She’d lived a life since then, worked, raised children, lost people she loved. She’d written through work and play dates and trips to the beach, through illness and recovery, through poor decisions, through countless rejections.
She thinks of that thing Sylvia Plath said: I love my rejection slips. They show me I try and recognises the rawness of that statement. Feels the strength of it. Sits up a little straighter.
She looks outside, to her grandson building a house near the garden beds she’s been developing. He’s starting simple, laying one block carefully next to the other. She sees the clear line from front to back, a foundation solid enough to hold the next storey. She watches him for a long moment.
When the kettle clicks off, Eleanor makes tea, and thinks about foundations, clear lines from start to finish, starting simple.
She settles back at the table, picks up her pen – and hears a yell from the garden.
A catastrophe, by the sound of it. Possibly involving Lego.
Eleanor takes a sip of tea, then pushes herself up.
The quiet work will have to wait.
While the first line of this story came from a text message I received from a friend recently, this is a work of fiction. I felt it was such a strong line that I wanted to see if I could write a story around it.
Musings from the cold 