With all the thoughts racing in my head, sleep eluded me, and instead of sitting here staring at the ceiling, I should’ve been writing. As soundless as possible, I stood, grabbing my laptop from the bedside table. In the doorway of my bedroom, I paused when he rolled to his right side, not wanting to wake him. I counted to twenty in my head, and when he snored softly, I shut the door behind me as I left the room. The second bedroom, which I’d converted into an office, was down the stairs. With blackout curtains on the window, I would lock myself in there for days and write until my fingertips hurt. Or until my best friend, June, stopped by to make sure I was alive and forced me to shower or dragged me to our favorite coffee shop. Writing was personal, everyone had their own process. Mine just happened to err on the side of insomnia.
I switched on the desk lamp and sat my laptop down onto the wood surface. The desk was shaped like an L and fit nicely in the corner of the room. I had a small couch that sat under the window and two large, floor-to-ceiling shelving units, thank you Ikea, bursting with journals, books, and Lord of the Rings memorabilia. Instead of pining for the one that got away, Tolkien was an addiction I could be proud of. The left side of the desk housed my PC and a large, flat-screen monitor. I fired it up, the reassuring purr of the processor soothed some of my unwanted anxiety. I’d get like this often. Wired and awake. The only cure I’d ever found was to write until I was tired. Sometimes it was a couple of hours, sometimes it was several days.
I opened my laptop and clicked on the email icon. This was the most daunting part of being an author. Love Always, Wild had finally topped out at number two on The New York Times best seller list and sat there for a few weeks without budging. Though this was fabulous for my career and my ego, success and notoriety came at a cost. Insecurity, the inevitability of the end, started to pick away at all of my weak spots. How long would this last? What if I never finished another book? Did all the people pulling me in every direction really give a shit about me as a person, or was I just an accessory, a new toy? How long would it take before they all realized I wasn’t as talented as they thought? These hundred or so emails, all from people I didn’t know, made my success feel more precarious. A month ago, I had maybe ten emails, all from June or Anders. The closest I’d ever gotten to one hundred emails was in my spam folder. But now, I had an email address set up by my publisher with the specific intention of interacting with my fans. I hated that word, it was pretentious. I wasn’t a fucking pop singer. All these people had flooded into my life like a ditch collected rainwater after a storm. But the sun always came out, didn’t it? How fast would all these people disappear under someone else’s heat?
Ignoring the emails for now, I pulled up my work in progress on the PC. I reread the first twenty pages, hating every last word. At one point I deleted it all, then panicked, hitting that blessed undo button. I rearranged and rewrote the first paragraph of chapter one about a thousand times before I growled and threw my pen at the wall. It was almost eleven-thirty, and I was about to give up, take some Benadryl, and call it a night, when an email notification alerted from my laptop speaker. I moved the tip of my finger over the touchpad, curious who’d email me this late. The message was from the Bartley Press account, the one for my fans. Usually, I had Anders look through these for me, but the email address and its obvious nod to Tolkien, piqued my curiosity.
FROM: [email protected]
Date: Jul 13 11:28 PM
SUBJECT: It’s my birthday so why not?
I’m not even sure you’re going to get this. And I’m not a great writer, not like you. But today is my birthday and I figured what the hell? Worst case, I don’t get a response, but at least I got to say what I wanted to say to you. First, let me apologize for the lack of greeting. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to address this to Wilder, Wild, or Mr. Welles, those all sounded a bit wrong to me, seeing how you’re a stranger, so I figured screw it, I’ll just get right to the point.
I’ve been thinking about writing to you for a few days, I finished your book, and it was… I don’t even know a word for it. A revelation, maybe? I’ve known I was gay since I was a little kid. Even had a boyfriend once, but I’ve been in the closet for my entire life, for reasons I won’t get into because I’m sure you have better things to do with your day. I just wanted to thank you, I guess, for writing Jake. I can relate to him in more ways than one. Reading him, I saw so many things reflected in myself.
Your book got me thinking. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the movie Shawshank Redemption, but there’s this phrase, it’s a pretty popular quote from the movie, “Get busy living or get busy dying.” I don’t want to be like your Jake. I don’t want to die living a half-life. I’m tired of hiding. But I’m not ready to come out yet, again for reasons I shouldn’t dump on a stranger. I know your book is fiction, inspired by your life, and I wanted to say how much I admire what you’ve done. I’m jealous of your courage. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll find some courage of my own.
Wishing you well, Jordan.
P.S. I agree with what you said about Sam and Frodo in your book.
The last sentence made me laugh out loud, the smile on my face growing as I immediately started to reread the email. There was something about this letter that was familiar, his words striking some chord inside me. I wanted to respond to him but wasn’t sure if I should. The Internet was a minefield and he was a complete stranger. I drummed my fingers over the keys, debating with myself. I decided to open a few of the other emails I’d gotten from readers to see if they were all this complimentary and personal. The first few I’d opened were simple, mostly consisting of “thank you for writing this book” while others I’d wished I would have never opened in my lifetime. After I’d opened a message that had a naked picture of what looked like a teenage boy, I closed out of the email program entirely.
“What the fuck is wrong with people?” I whispered to myself, completely horrified by what I’d seen.
I figured it was best if I didn’t respond to Jordan’s email. His letter was sweet, and my heart ached for him, ached for the fact he thought he had to hide who he was in his life. One thing I’d learned from writing this book, thinking about Jax and how he’d been scared all the time, was how lucky I was. Never once had I ever given a damn about what others thought of me. And when I’d decided to publish the book, after my parents said I shouldn’t, and then disowned me for going through with it anyway, I realized I was better for it. I didn’t need people like that. I’d never been close to my parents anyway. I’d built my own family, with people who cared about me as I was. I have always been Wilder, and I’d never apologize for it, for being me.
I thought about how Jordan had said I was courageous for writing the book, and here I was afraid to write him back. It didn’t have to be elaborate. I could just send him a quick thank you for his kind words. After all, it was the guy’s birthday.
FROM: [email protected]