Blank Pages for Closed Eyes

Blank Pages for Closed Eyes

By Veronica Letourneau

It was the sun reflecting in my eye and the cool morning air sweeping in from the window that woke me up. My head ached and my shouldered tense from what must have been a stressful night that I didn’t remember. While this kind of morning was seemingly not strange, there was something about it that made the hairs on my arms rise and my back sweat cold. I reached over to the phone on my bedside table, my blanket sliding off as I sat up in my bed. It was 7am, too early for my alarm to go off. Why did I wake up so early?

I walked over only a few steps to the kitchen, my apartment had two rooms, a bathroom and everything else. I had somehow convinced myself it was worth it since I was finally in the city and would be leaving it constantly. The reality was it made me more of a hermit.

My breakfast was normal, coffee brewed the same, toast was a nice crispy warm bite. Yet, there was this ghostly anxiety, similar to the one you get when you feel a presence behind you, but when you turn around there is no one there.

Once the morning passed to an hour where more of my friends would be awake, my phone buzzed. I finished off the last of my toast and walked back to my bedside table. Before I could even take my few steps towards the phone, the buzzing got more violent, more constant.

I quickened my pace and grabbed the phone. The first notification I saw was a text from a friend I hadn’t heard from in a long time. I scrolled down the notifications to see several texts, a few tweets, and emails. Emails from long forgotten friends, strangers, and family members.

None of the messages made any sense. They had a variety of congratulations, “What an accomplishment,” and “How come you never told me you were working on that?”

Working on what? What was there to congratulate me on? I then got a text from my best friend that said: “Facetime me the moment you wake up AHHHHH.”

She never even gave me the chance, the excitement to speak with me was more powerful than her patience.

“How could you not tell me!” Was the first thing she said. She was in the bathroom, her phone propped against her mirror and she brushed her blonde straight hair.

“Tell you what?”

“Seriously? Don’t lie to me, I saw the article.” She then sent me a link. “Were you trying to surprise me?”

I pressed on the link, it was an article claiming someone called Myriam Havel had written an overnight hit. The line that pissed me off the most was: “Struggling indie writer Myriam Havel has finally reached notoriety, as her new novel Blank Pages is being referenced and “memed” in several social media platforms. Where did this novel come from? Whatever the case, the young adult dark fantasy sci-fi novel seems to have grabbed the attention of everyone who comes across it.”

Blank Pages? What kind of pretentious garbage is that title? Why did my friend think I wrote this? I haven't even finished my current sci-fi novel. A picture of me from my social media was featured in the article. They probably just searched up my name and my picture came up first.

“What is this?” I asked my best friend.

“It’s too early for this kind of joke. I’m just going to say congratulations and remember me when you’re famous.” She hung up the phone before I had time to respond.

I decided to look at one of the emails. Three of them were publishers who wanted to publish my next book. The fourth email was the strangest one, it was one saying I had a meeting online with them later in the day.

My headache intensified as the room started to spin. I leaned against my bed side table for balance as I started to lose feeling in my limbs. What was happening?

The panic was so immediate that I started to cry and dropped my phone on the floor. The screen instantly cracked, but I couldn’t even register it at the time. Once the heavy sobbing calmed down, I grabbed my bag and rushed out the door. I needed to leave the sheltered hole and clear my head.

As I exited the apartment complex, the bus near my house was about to arrive and I took it. I sat in the empty bus, gazing out the window watching the streets go by. A calmness washed over me. This cleared my head enough to dwell on the absurdity of everything. Was this an elaborate prank my friends were pulling, or did I just experience a rare kind of amnesia? I saw a commercial book store pass by and got off at the next stop. I needed to see this book for myself, the one I had supposedly written.

I didn’t need much looking around to find it, it was pretty close to the entrance as a featured new book. The bookstore labeled it as “the internet sensation” novel. I skimmed through some of those memes before I dropped my phone, none of them even made any sense. The cover itself was this alarming red and an Inky image of two hands covering a pair of eyes. I wasn’t sure which was worse, my least favourite colour being the prominent one, or the pretentious title in big bulky letters right under the eyes.

I picked up one of the books, my breath stopped and it was heavier than I thought. I brought it over to one of the reading tables, plopped myself down for a long read and opened it.

I froze.

Did I pick up a model version by accident?

I rushed back over to the other books.

I opened all of them.

Every single one was the same.

All of the pages were blank.

I rushed over to one of the workers. A tired young adult who looked preoccupied with something else on his mind.

“Excuse me sir, is this book supposed to be blank?” My question must have startled him out of his thought process, as his attention shifted to me.

“What do you mean blank?”

I handed him the book for proof, but his expression hardened.

“Miss, this isn’t blank, see?” He turned the book over to me and pointed at the page.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll even read the first line for you. ‘When was the last time she could remember having eyes, it seemed like it was never even a reality.’” I couldn’t hear him after that line, it was as if his voice was on the other side of the room. Only incoherent mumbles came out. He suddenly shoved the book back in my hands. “I don’t mean to be rude, miss, but I am not in the mood for pranks.” He rushed off at that moment.

My panic was more of a numbing feeling this time, with the headache transforming into lightheadedness. I headed towards the cashier and purchased the book.

I waited for the bus that would take me home and leaped up the stairs to reach my apartment. There had to be an explanation for all this, and I was going to figure it out.

I swung open the door and slammed it shut in one swift movement. Opened the book once more to find nothing, I held it up against my lamp, still nothing.

My investigation was interrupted by the familiar ring of a video call. I thought I had turned my computer off last night. I recognized the name from the email, it was my supposed editor for the book.

I quickly answered the call, not caring how I looked at that moment.

“Hey Myriam, how are you after that article came out? I'm sure you’re excited.” She gave a squeal of excitement that was honestly charming. She looked so professional, with straightened black hair and an expensive formal power suit. Yet her maneuvers and way of talking were extremely childlike and silly.

“Yeah,” I lied. “It’s just all happening so fast.”

“Well that’s what happens when the internet latches onto things, though I will admit it was faster than I thought. Usually this kind of rapid popularity only happens when you’re an influencer with an already established fan base. We, however, are going to adapt to the popularity. I set up a book tour for you starting next week.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What is it about my book that interested you?”

“Well, even though it was a futuristic fantasy world, the characters appealed in such a way that felt relatable and fantastical. It was a really good balance. Especially the male characters.”

Great, that gave me nothing to go off of. She could be talking about a billion other commercialized novels.

The week that passed was a mixture of exhilarating and exhausting. By the end of it, I wanted to crawl into my room and never come out. It wasn’t my room anymore though. My publisher had found me a new apartment with more security. The place was magnificent, elegant, modern, and unfamiliar. I knew I would eventually get used to it. Though it felt like I didn’t even have a chance to decide if I wanted to move out before my things were being packed. My furniture was replaced and I was given a stylist for my new wardrobe. I had to try on a closet full of outfits before the stylist was satisfied.

The stylist had me suited in a tightly fit red silk suit. She thought red would be fitting for the book signing, since that had been the color I had chosen for the cover. While I looked wonderful, and having my hair and makeup done wasn’t as awful as I thought it would be, I definitely wasn’t myself.

The makeover only temporarily distracted me from the panic of the book signing. The first line told me that the character doesn't have eyes, but that could mean many things. It could be that they literally did not have eyes or it could be all metaphorical. It was impossible to answer fan questions. I couldn’t even find a way to like the cover. That first line wasn’t incredible either, though it was kind of mysterious, which I didn’t hate.

The car that picked me up had no driver. For the first five minutes it was exciting. I voice commanded it to play music, it brought out champagne when I asked it too (which was not as great as I thought it was going to be). While I had time to look out the window and relax, my muscles continued to stay tense, my mind stressed about the day ahead. The car passed by a crowd of people, mostly young adults and adolescents. I guess they were my demographic. The building was a two-story bookstore in the middle of downtown, it was one I had dreamed of doing a book signing at. How did my editor set this up? I never told her about it, I supposed it was just luck.

The fans of the book were all very kind to me, but all had very different reactions. Some would want me to sign a picture of an internet joke referencing my book, others wanted just a signed autograph and nothing more. Most of them were too nervous to talk to me, just saying nothing and giving a gleeful smile as I signed that red book.

There was one interaction I was not prepared for though.

She was a young girl with an oversized t-shirt and bright pink hair. I could tell her eyes were glassy, from either having cried or trying not to.

“Hi, how you doing?” I asked her, in an attempt to comfort her.

“Hi,” she said, a little too high pitched. “Would it be okay if you signed this and took a picture with me.

“Picture is extra,” my editor barked.

“Come on, she’s young. How’s this, we take one photo and if you want more you have to pay to make my editor happy. How does that sound?”

“Yes, thank you thank you so much!” She leaned over, a little too close and brought her phone out at an angle where we were both in the frame.

“Your book changed my life.”

“It did?” Guilt seeped into me.

“Yes, I was in such a dark place and seeing someone so damaged be able to find love and friends made me believe that I could do that too.”

“Oh, well I’m glad it helped you. I hope you can get out of that dark place.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes watered as a smile appeared on her face. She clutched the book as the security guard led her away so the next fan could talk to me. That book had only been out for a week. How could it have changed her life?

That anxiety hadn’t left since that fan interaction. That bounding head, the cold sweaty back and shaky hands. None of it left, even when I came home and took a bath. The book changed her life, but it wasn’t really me who did it. I had to find out who wrote this. The next day I had a meeting with my editor, maybe she had some answers.

My editor was in her office, sorting through her books. She gave me a greeting without even turning around. The cheery sing-song “hello” I had become used to by now.

I had to ask her, I had to reveal to her that I was a fraud, otherwise I was never going to get any answers.

“I have to tell you something. It’s going to sound weird so please keep an open mind.”

She stopped sorting her books and swivelled around to look at me. She still had the grin.

“Of course I will, what is it you want to tell me?”

“Well, I can’t read my book.”

“I know,” she cooed. The editor intertwined her figures together as she plopped down on her seat.

“What do you mean you know?”

She gave a slight condescending laugh. “You also don’t know what the story is, do you?”

My head started to feel dizzy again. How did she know? Did she know all along? I pushed those suspicions aside.

“How could that have happened? Is it not really my book?”

“How do you think it happened Myriam? It happened like it does every time someone wants an impossible thing. You wished upon it and I granted it.” Her brown eyes glowed and her childish demeanour became more menacing.

“I don’t understand, who are you?”

“I am whatever you want me to be,”

“So, you’re a demon or a gene?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Ok,” my frustration made my hands shake. “Why can’t I read the book?”

“You didn’t write it.”

“I understand that, but that doesn’t explain why I can’t read it and everyone else can.”

“I wrote the book. I knew exactly what kind of book would connect to a lot of people in an emotional way, but also make it not too serious and none-sophisticated so that people could have fun with it on the internet. The reason you can’t see it is a by-product of the spell. You wanted to be a famous writer, but I can’t just make you good at something. The wish created a perfect book, but it could never be your book. There is nothing of you in it, that’s why you can’t read it.”

“What is the book about?”

“I don’t know, would you like to make another deal to find out?” I couldn’t believe this jerk. I wondered how she convinced me to do such a cliche bad deal.

Then I thought of those cold nights in the cafes with a coffee as my dinner. I thought about that restaurant job I hated, the rude ungrateful customers I was forced to be nice too, the long hours I did just to get by and pay for a small isolating apartment. I remembered my back hurting from standing all day at work and my friends talking about me failing behind my back.

I knew even if I didn’t want to, that this shit deal did not need much convincing. Was the alternative really just this? I was supposed to just be paraded everywhere and put in another isolating apartment that was just nicer and bigger. I was supposed to promote a product I hated just to make money for myself, this demon and the company that printed it. If I had at least worked a little bit on the book, then maybe… maybe…

But how could I know?

Was that all this was? A product to be sold.

“Did you enjoy writing it?” I asked her.

“Well sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. It was like a puzzle that needed to be solved. I couldn’t make it exactly how I wanted it. That was always your problem honestly, you never considered that this was always meant for others to read.

“I know it’s for others to read, but shouldn’t you do more than that, like something that you have to think about?”

“That’s for academics. If you want to be famous, you have to make something people need at the moment. Which is usually something easy, emotional. You know, a nice little escape out of their bland depressing realities.”

“That’s an extremely pessimistic take on writing novels.”

“Yes, but it’s kinda fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yeah, it's a puzzle box. Maybe for your next book you can try thinking outside of your own head.”

The dizziness went away, I now shook with rage.

“Let me guess,” she gave a childish grin, “not something you want to believe.”

“No, that’s complete bullshit. My next novel is going to prove it.”

“Okay, it must be easier for you now that you already have the fame and money. Can’t wait to read it.”

I never saw her again after that day.

It was like the deal was off.

I spent a year switching between going to a new city to finish my book tour, to writing my new novel. I had been assigned a new editor, this one not as childish and cruel. I kept trying to read the novel, but the pages remained blank. I started to get paranoid that I wouldn’t be able to read my new one, but every time I rushed to the computer in a panic it was there when I opened the document.

I wanted to prove her wrong, that I could write whatever I wanted and my audience would eat it up, but I knew to some degree she was right.

I wrote something I needed, something to vent my own conflicting feelings. I knew it wasn’t anything near what that red book was, but I didn’t care. I really did try to consider the audience. I tried to express my feelings through characters I enjoyed and through a language my fans would understand, but I had no idea if I had succeeded.

The ratings didn’t come out as good this time. Most of the reviews said this one was a vanity project. How I had lost my relatability. There were even rumors going around with the fandom that I had gotten a ghost writer, because I was too busy touring to write it all on my own. A small minority blamed the change in editors, claiming me and the last editor had a fallout for creative differences. Some even concluded that it must have been the last editor holding down my ego so that I could create something great. All of them should have made me empty, pitiful, and destroyed. I wasn’t.

A month after my new book was published, I got a fan letter in the mail.

Dear Myriam,

I know you probably get this a lot, but this new novel was incredible and it changed my life. It’s so different from your first one, but that’s what I like about it. How you describe the way a room feels and the way you integrate complex emotions with things outside of the characters head is amazing. I’m sorry it’s not getting the love the first one did and I don’t believe any of the rumours, but I love it. Thank you for believing in yourself and writing what you want to write.

Love,