I have been very remiss in my writing as of late. I am no longer unemployed, which is a godsend but I work much further away than I used to. Because of that, my weekends are used to get everything done because I don't get home until late, then I go to the gym and then I pass out. I guess I live an unproductive life style.
For those who are interested, which I'm sure you're not but I'm going to tell you anyway, I am a journalist. I work at a weekly newspaper in Northern New Jersey. It's definitely an interesting job. I've already had a slight brush with the law. I was taking photos of a NJ Transit bus and had the police called on me because it was suspicious. I don't know how suspicious a girl in a pencil skirt can look but I guess it's a good thing someone said something. As everyone has parroted since 9/11, if you see something, say something. But the officer sent out recognized me because he was our model for my police body camera. So win-win. I didn't get arrested and the cop remembered me. [I'll post the link to my body camera story if anyone is so interested. It was actually pretty interesting.]
[http://www.northjersey.com/news/public-safety/police-rolling-out-body-cam-initiative-1.1630181?page=1]
Anyway... Now that I'm done hawking my newspaper skills and newspaper to everyone. I have a new writing prompt. I've seen this concept before and a favorite author of mine, Jodi Picoult and her daughter wrote a book kind of based on this scenario. I hope you enjoy it. This was filed under both writing prompts and constrained writing.
Out of every all the people who have read my story, you are the first person I have seen are the first one who has truly brought me to life. I have loved watching your lips form the words that make up the deeds I have accomplished, the interrogations I have performed on terrible men and the thoughts I wake up with after my nightmares.
Only you seem to understand and care for me. I have called out to you so many times in my dreams and in my doings but my paper words fall on deaf ears. I wish to tell you of your beauty and empathy and how wonderful it is. I want to use my calloused fingers to wipe away the tears you shed when you read my story.
I wonder what it is about this story that brings you back again and again. Is it the mystery? Is it the resolution of what seems to be an unsolvable crime? Every time I see your face as you read, I see an understanding and a deep, undeniable pain. Have you been hurt in a way that makes you understand my story and my pain and my nightmares.
Sometimes when I am lying deep in thought while the book rests at your bedside, I think I can hear you thrashing around and crying out against enemies that neither of us can see or fight. And when you awake, sweating in the dark, I long to take you tenderly into my arms.
How painful it is to only be able to whisper words to you, only to have them fade into ash and dust before they can leave the page. Each utterance of 'I love you' that fails to reach your ears is like a paper cut. Small, yet painful. And while I watch you suffer your pain in silence while this novel wraps mine up in a sweet little bow, I pray to be able to reach out to you and grip your fingers with mine and comfort you in every way I can.
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