Carmen

I have this strange feeling that something wonderful is about to happen.

Now, hear me out—you don't know me, and you don't know where I come from. If I passed you on the street, you wouldn't have the slightest clue of who I was, the writer delighting you in the story of my life.

So, you might be thinking, "Why are you feeling so cheery? Don't you have a job to get to?" And I would tell you that you are absolutely, one hundred percent correct. I should be doing more than sitting here over a cup of espresso. Thinking about this small black notebook, the one I found on the subway.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it: its leather bind, the smell of the pages. I didn't know who it belonged to or why I found it.

I was on my morning commute, headed into work. I stood and clutched at the metal pole, careful not to fall. Every so often, I would glance at my watch to make sure I wasn't late. My boss hated that.

Next thing I knew, I noticed the notebook. It was left behind on the pale green seat.

Something about it stood out to me.

I looked around at the people near me. "Is this yours?" I asked the tall man wearing headphones. He pretended not to hear me.

A woman nursing a child looked in my direction, and I smiled at her.

"Hi," I said. "Is this yours?"

A simple shake of the head.

Then I noticed the man who stood next to me: high cheekbones, dark skin. "It looks like it's yours," he said with a shrug.

"But it's so nice," I said.

"Consider it your lucky day," he said.

I held it in my hands, flipping through the pages. Much of the book was filled.

Inside the cover, someone wrote, "Carmen," but gave no last name.

I imagined what her life might have been like and how she might have perceived the world.

I don't know who the writer is, but I know her stories. I know how much she has been hurting—how much she has been wanting answers. And I feel a connection with her.

If I could find her, I would thank her for inspiring me. She made me want to write my own stories, and as a result, my life blossomed.

After I found that small black notebook, I began to think of my own life differently. How others may view it from the outside. It caused me to dive deep into my imagination and see what I would find.

The next day after work, I headed to Central Park—my place of inspiration. I sat on a bench overlooking the lake and inhaled the fresh air. Closing my eyes, I became one with the scenery.

All around me, people had their own experiences, and I had mine.

From that spot, I felt like I could see everything. And I felt like I could be anything.

On the remaining pages, I drafted what would become the outline of my novel.

Don't get me wrong: I went through many revisions. I found every hole and crater in the plot. As a journalist, I knew how to ask the right questions, and so I asked myself those same questions.

But, at the end of that day, I drafted ideas, listing them in bullet points. In fact, my hand cramped after coming up with so many thoughts and names. Then I stuffed the book into my backpack and carried on.

On my way home, I stopped at Starbucks. A woman with long blonde hair struck up a conversation with me. She had hoop earrings and a dream-catcher tattoo on her forearm.

"How is your day going?" she asked, as if she knew me. It was the New Yorker way.

I smiled. "Not too bad," I said. "Yourself?"

"It's bogus, man," she said with a laugh. "But at least it's Friday, right?"

"Cheers to that," I said, tipping my head. Then I took a swig out of my latte.

It got me thinking. What if I had met Carmen in the Starbucks? She could be any one of these people tapping away at a keyboard or reading a Jonathan Swift novel.

I decided to write about Carmen, who I thought she might be. That was the premise for my novel.

I imagined her coming home from work, the dog greeting her at the door. "Hi, Bailey," she would say to him as he jumped on her. Then came the kids, who would storm out from their rooms, screaming, "Mom's home!" Then they would tackle her, and she would kiss their foreheads, and all would be right with the world.

What about that dream-catcher tattoo? Maybe Carmen loved dream catchers, too. Would drape them all over her wall and swear by them. Yes, on the nights that they weren't there, she couldn't sleep a wink. Yes, for sure.

Carmen would walk to the garage where her husband hung out, draped underneath a car. He was always working on something, always keeping his hands busy.

When he saw her, though, he stopped what he was doing. He realized he was the luckiest man on earth.

All of this—all of these ideas came to me out of nowhere. I described every detail of Carmen. I wanted my reader to know exactly who she was, as if they were staring straight at her. Maybe even beyond her physical appearance, into her psyche.

There were secrets about her that no one knew, thoughts that she kept buried and locked away.

She struggled with her own mind. Despite the house, despite the family, despite all of...this. She couldn't seem to make right with the brain God gave her. She always felt like something was missing.

At the end of my novel, I wrote,

"Who is Carmen?"

That's what I decided to name the book.

Because the truth is, no one knows. Not even me. I still don't have a last name. So, I just have to create her character and make pretend. But she is still defining herself. She is still a work in progress, and that is okay.

She doesn't even know who she is. Every person who knows her would describe her from a specific angle.

I felt insecure about my work, so I kept it hidden in my desk drawers. I didn't talk about it.

Until one day my brother mentioned a writing contest. He had seen an ad for it in the subway station.

"You can win twenty-thousand dollars," he said. "It's worth a shot."

I did some investigating and found out that the writing contest awarded full manuscripts. They even granted a publication deal. So, I sat in my cold den and typed away at my computer.

For three months, I heard back nothing. I expected to find a rejection letter greeting me on the front step. Or in my Gmail inbox.

I would like to say that I got busy and forgot about it, but I never did. I thought about it every single day. I thought about the real Carmen and what she would do if she found my book in stores. Would she make the connection?

It was October: that much I do remember. October third. Warm enough to go for a walk but too cold to go for a swim.

I lived by myself, so I spent most days by myself, hunched over at my computer. I was in the middle of something when I noticed a new notification from my Gmail.

The subject of the email read, "Congratulations!"

My heart fluttered in my chest.

Could it be?

Goosebumps rose on my skin. I could feel every part of me suddenly coming to life.

At last, when I clicked on the email, I learned that I was going to be a published author. I had won the twenty-thousand dollars and the book deal.

I wept tears of joy. My entire life felt like it was worth it.

I was going to be a published author.

Now, exactly two years later, I wait in a coffee shop. I have found the woman who the black notebook belongs to. She encountered my book and wanted to have a conversation with me.

I have this strange feeling that something wonderful is about to happen.