The Aspiring Author

My name is Jon, I live in New York, and I hate my job. Maybe hate is a strong word, but I'm not happy or fulfilled with my life. Writing short stories, life experiences, research articles, and whatever else I create, those things make me feel accomplished and fulfilled. I haven't published anything yet; I will when the time is right. Waking up every day following the same monotonous routine of making myself look "presentable" for the corporate world then hailing a cab that brings me down the same roads with the scenery only changing with the seasons. I sit at my dull cubicle, listen to my boss tell me what I need to improve on, and hear my other coworkers talk about their "picture perfect" family life makes me want to jump off the building. I don't fit in here. I can't relate to these people.

As much as I hate my job, I can't quit. I have rent, bills, and other adult commitments that keep me in this mundane cycle. I guess this is just what adulthood is, routine. I'm glad I decided to take a half-day from work today; I need to clear my mind, and it is Friday, so why not.

On my way home, I decided to walk through the local park instead of hailing a stuffy cab, and it was a warm fall day. The air was fresh, and the leaves were crunching under my feet as I slowly strolled through the park. I was kicking the leaves as I walked, and I felt something hit my foot. I bent down and brushed away the colorful leaves and found a small black notebook. I looked around, thinking someone might have dropped it, but no one was nearby. I picked it up and sat down on the nearest bench.

I opened the book, and the first page took me by surprise. It said, Ah, you found me. If you're reading this, well, I don't know how else to say it, but I'm dead.

I slammed the book shut and thought to myself, who would leave a book like this behind? Let alone in a random park. Then again, it is NY, and I have encountered much weirder things. Still, this was odd. I put the book in my back pocket and continued my stroll through the park. I stopped by my favorite Italian restaurant to pick up my go-to comfort food, three-cheese lasagna. If anything can drown out my stress from the day, it's this decadent dish of noodles, cheese, meat, and a side of crunchy garlic bread.

The black notebook had been on my mind for the whole day. I had so many questions, a dead person's book? About what? Who did it belong to? Left in a park? It made no sense, but I had to know more. I poured myself a glass of whiskey neat, grabbed the book, got comfortable on my couch, and began to read.

Forgive me for such a jarring first page of this notebook. I'm sure whoever is reading this is quite confused and has many questions. It's not every day that you find a dead man's notebook. Before you turn to the next page, I have a straightforward request; once you have started reading my life story, you have to finish it.

Two glasses of whiskey in and now intrigued by a dead man's request, I poured a third glass and flipped to the next page.

I must warn you that this notebook isn't filled with crazy stories about my life, rather a simple man's story that I hope will inspire someone. Before I dive into my childhood and the other parts of my life that molded me into the man I am, well was, I ask that you take a walk through my life, literally. I have listed a few places in this book; each has its own story that ties into who I was. You already walked through my favorite park, it was always so peaceful, and I spent many mornings reading and writing on various benches. Part of the reason I left the book there, I strolled through the park, knowing my days were slowly coming to an end, and I wanted someone to find my story.

I shut the book and thought to myself that he sure is asking a lot for a man who isn't even here to watch me go on this "journey." I laughed to myself at the thought of even going through with this. I had nothing else planned for the next day, and it was the weekend, so I might as well see what this book is all about.

The following morning greeted me with dehydration, a dull headache, and grogginess. I popped two Advil, chugged some water, grabbed the black book, and was out the door. The sun intensified my headache, but at least it was another warm fall day. I was slightly nervous to see what the black book had in store for me. All I knew is that it was better than my typical weekend plans of sitting inside, binge-watching Netflix, and wallowing in self-pity.

The notebook page instructed me to go to the address, and the story behind it would be on the following page. The first location took me to what had to have been a 50 million dollar home in the Upper Eastside of NY. My initial thought was this man lived the life that I could only hope to live one day. I am sure he had a beautiful partner, kids, pets, success in his career, and everything anyone could have wanted. The next page said otherwise;

You made it to my childhood home. Looks perfect, right? Well, it wasn't. The exterior leads you to believe those who reside inside have it all and are happy, but that was not the case. My childhood was as dark and cold as the bricks that built the home. My parents never showed compassion, love, or happiness to each other or me. I spent most of my time with my nanny, she was great, but everything felt fake, empty, and cold. My only piece of happiness was painting. Over the years, I would sit in my art room and paint for hours on end. I guess that was one of the perks of my parents being wealthy, endless art supplies. I was determined to become a successful artist when I grew up, but my parents begged to differ. They did not care about my art; they were dead set on me attending an Ivy League school and becoming a lawyer or doctor. It discouraged me quite a bit and left me feeling like no one cared about my passions.

I shut the book and felt an overwhelming sense of empathy. I knew exactly how this man was feeling. My parents always told me that being an author was not a real job. The constant negativity towards my writing caused me to stop for many years. Instead, I spent numerous hours working my way up at my current job, which left me feeling empty. I felt more invested in this man's story now more than ever. The next location couldn't have been more opposite of the first;

My first apartment, quite a dump, right? I know, but it served its purpose. Somewhere to eat, sleep, and paint. It was the only place I could afford since I dropped out of college and worked as a waiter for minimum wage. I was no longer receiving money from my parents since I decided to stop living their narrative. They stopped talking to me when I told them I was not too fond of school and wanted to be an artist. That stung but didn't surprise me. I had two close friends from the restaurant who supported my passions, and that was all I needed. For years I worked tirelessly on painting, trying to get noticed, sell my first piece, and land a spot in a showcase. My big break happened when a well-known artist named James came into the restaurant, and I mustered up the courage to approach him and show my work. He showed no emotion while I swiped through my gallery of work, but then a surprising look fell across his face when I landed on my favorite piece. The painting reflected my childhood; someone broken, lost, and alone. He told me to bring that piece to his showcase that evening, and that was the night my life changed.

I couldn't wait to see where the book would take me next;

The final location, the gallery, it's where my life finally changed for the better. I sold my painting that night, became great friends with James, made new connections, and started a new chapter in my life. Eventually, I met the love of my life, got married, and became the parent I wish I had. All I ever wanted was to be happy and fulfilled in life, and I found that within myself and my passions. Like I found happiness here, I know whoever is reading this will, too, just as long as you walk inside.

I opened the door and walked into the gallery, and it was beautiful. I felt a sense of relief and creativity flow over me. A man was standing inside cleaning. I continued to look at the paintings while keeping the black book clenched in my hands. He turned and looked at me and then down at the book in my hands and said, "my name is James, and I see you found Vincent's black book."

I realized it was James from the book, and I finally found out the book belonged to a man named Vincent. I tried to ask James about Vincent, but he was a many of few words. James went into the back room, came out with a small bag, handed it to me, and said, "Vincent wanted me to give this to whoever found his book. I hope it finds you well." Puzzled, I looked inside, and to my surprise, there was more money than I had ever seen and a note.

To whoever took a walk through my life, I hope you learned a thing or two. The timing will never be right to follow your dreams. Your journey will not be linear, and success does not happen overnight. People will leave, but the right ones will show up when the time is right. Happiness is found within you and only you. You have the potential to achieve whatever it is that you are dreaming about. Sometimes we need a little help, so I hope this $20,000 helps you take the leap you have always wanted.

My eyes welled with tears as I walked out of the gallery. I looked at the sky and thanked Vincent for changing my life. In the following months, I took a step down at my job, focused on writing, and landed a book deal, all thanks to the black notebook that belonged to Vincent.