Childish Dreams

If a little black book offered you the chance to change your life, would you believe it? Even crazier, would you accept its offer?

Back then, I wasn’t sure what to think. I mean, the thing just showed up in my mail one day. The movies had taught me that something like that meant your life was going to become a horror movie. What was I supposed to expect? Death threats? An ancient incantation meant to summon demons inside my TV? Invasive details of my private life written by some lovesick stalker?

Compared to the strange, almost professional business offer I received, those other ideas almost seemed more realistic.

When I brought the book home that day, unwrapped and only labeled by a single postage stamp and a sticker with my printed address, I really had no idea what I was getting into.

I felt its velvety covers, imagined the things I could write or draw inside despite already have 4+ unmarked books in my bedroom, and gently, curiously flipped through.

Strangely enough, the first thing I noticed was how pleasantly warm it felt in my hands. I couldn’t compare it to anything I had felt before, really. It wasn’t like a book left in the sun or sat on by a fluffy cat, not at all. It felt like… contentment, like praise or approval. It was weird.

I remember pushing that away and taking a peek at the pages. They were lined, the color calm and desaturated enough to make the writing the main focus. It was easy to notice the writing left in careful print on the first page. Looking at it now makes me feel giddy the same way the cover did.

I’ll paraphrase it here, because I don’t feeling like messing with the plagiarism protection in this thing (I won't get into this).

“You’ve been unrecognized. I recognize you. That’s why I’m offering you this position. I want the world to see your writing. I want your talent to be seen. You’ve struggled with publisher’s but this is most certainly not the same. Follow these instructions and you’ll be paid in both capital and exposure.

Step One; Write your story on a fresh, blank page.

Step Two; Wait for my feedback in red and edit

Step Three; Once satisfied, write the words “The End is Complete” in blue and wait for payment by direct deposit (for your convenience)”

Strange, right? It was creepy, and sounded so, so fabricated. Not only was there no way someone would just do that, it was impossible. It was obviously from some jerk neighbor who somehow found out about my last publisher rejection and wanted to rub it in.

So naturally, I replied.

Not earnestly, of course. I wasn’t crazy. But I did write the book back.

“Thanks for nothing, asshole.” And, the finishing cherry on top; “The end is complete” in blue.

After that, I was feeling both proud and ashamed of myself. Nothing a glass of wine and a peanut butter sandwich for dinner couldn’t help (Like I told you, just got my latest book rejected. Not much in the kitchen).

I can’t quite remember when I came back around. I think it was about when I was getting ready for bed. I was wandering around, turning out lights, putting things where they needed to be, and I finally gave in, glancing over to where the book sat on my chair.

There it was, sitting open on the arm right where I left it. I suppose at the time I was expecting it to jump out at me or start some lengthy monologue about how it was all a joke. But no. It just sat there, unmoving, like a normal moleskin journal would.

It took me only a few moments to break and pick it up, convincing myself I was only going to shut it, walk to my bedroom and set it up on the bookshelf.

But, just as a secret, childishly naive part of me had hoped, there was the red writing I had dreamed the entire day of reading.

“Writing like that isn’t going to get you famous. Try again :) .” In addition to that cheeky note, he’d also correct my capitalization on the finishing phrase. “The End is Complete”

Now, I’m sure you’re just dying to disprove this. Tell me I lied, that someone snuck into my house, whatever. The thing is, I don’t plan on wasting energy on people who refuse to believe this insane miracle. I just don’t care enough to.

On a similar, though separate note, the irrational idea that someone might sneak into my house to write the reply crossed my mind more than once, so for the rest of that day I had stayed in the kitchen and living room. I didn’t even let myself go to the bathroom, I was that determined to make sure that if it happened, I couldn’t be crazy.

Maybe I had been obsessed. Maybe I was acting crazy. Maybe I ran to the bathroom, book in hand, and took the longest pee of my life. The conclusion I’ve come to is that none of that matters. It happened. Somehow, that magic little book really worked.

My inner child had never been happier. Something huge, something magical and somehow something real was happening to me, like I’d always dreamed.

After pacing the entire length of the house for the next hour, I decided I would try to write something real. Another hour of sitting at my desk staring into oblivion and cursing my lack of ideas later, I finally let myself start. It took a lot of breaks and even more reminders that first drafts don’t need to be perfect, but that night I did it. I wrote my first real story in the book, finishing just as birds started to sing outside my window and the sky got to be the distinct pale blue color of dawn.

It wasn’t perfect. Just a small snippet of a short story I’d been wanting to write for years. A child stays up all night every year to see Santa, until finally one year he does, and a grand adventure ensues. Sound familiar?

An hour later, when red ink started to slowly bleed its way onto the page it became even more obvious that it wasn’t perfect. But, it was a great start. It was a victory.

And now, here I am. Writing, again. It’s been six months, and my books are starting to get famous. I’ve already made $20,000, and the money has only just started to flood in.

I’ve wondered a lot about the book. How it works, who’s behind it all, and why he chose me. I’ve asked about a billion times, but never get anything real back.

As time went on, I realized something. Like I mentioned before, I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to understand this in an effort to prove or disprove, to make sure I’m not crazy.

I’m happy. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time, whether this is really some coma-induced dream, or a really long hallucination.

So, the moral of the story? Keep looking for that happiness you want. I know it’s cheesy, and it’s so easy to say when I’m writing in a magic, self-publishing book, but it’s true nevertheless.

Whether happiness for you is a little black book, financial stability, long walks on the beach or ice cream on late nights with no work in the morning.

Whatever you do, be happy. Life is too short for us to dwell on the negatives of failure, disappointment and high expectations. What’s the point in dreading the future or other people’s expectations when your life is yours to command? We were put on this world to exist, and by god, I want to.

I know you do. You just gotta let yourself believe that, too.