Finders Keepers

Finders Keepers

I found it on the train in Europe.

I had left abruptly for an aimless rail exploration after losing my job as a legal clerk and deciding I might as well end my relationship with my boyfriend, who was an accountant.

Anyway, I struck out on my own and I wanted to return to the long-lost love of my childhood. The written word. I knew the only way I would stick to all these changes was to completely upend my surroundings, so I decided to take that long trip I’d always intended to. Not just to get somewhere, but actually enjoy myself. For the first time in a long time. Maybe, for the first time ever.

I decided on something my former lover would never “allow me to do.” A train trip across Europe. Hence my winding up on that fateful rail car, riding that day from Budapest to Paris.

The start of my trip was marked with a mundane but remarkable experience. As I boarded, I watched a family walking down the aisle toward me - a young girl, then a teenager, and a woman with two younger children. Then when I glanced beside me, an elderly woman was being helped on the train by a young rail worker. It was like seeing my own life process flashing in front of me.

It was at that moment I decided to take a deep breath and relax. Was I in such a hurry for my life to be over? I pulled out my spiral notepad. I had promised myself I’d capture the thoughts as they came this time. So I wouldn’t lose track.

‘...How quickly time passes. I came here for a journey, not just to get to the end.’

Things started to happen from there...

First I was told there had been a last-minute cancelation and the conductor asked if I would prefer semi-private quarters. I agreed. I felt like royalty as the train assistant helped me with my bags to my newly upgraded private compartment. With a deep breath, I raised my right foot and climbed the steps onto the massive steam train. I was stunned and pleasantly surprised by the detail of the railcar. I had no idea what to expect. The hand-crafted railings. The wide, lace curtain-dressed windows. The plushness of the carpet under my feet.

As I settled into my newly appointed compartment, I couldn’t help but run my hand over the woodwork. My eyes were drawn to the paintings hung in the corridor. I decided to explore what the rest of this rolling carriage had to offer; I grabbed my journal as an afterthought.

I loved the order of the narrow lines in that spiral notebook. But I deplored the metal wire that constantly caught on my sweater. The other choice was a composition notebook that brought flashbacks of middle school. Zero inspiration there.

I leaned against a window in a relatively empty area of the train and tried to write. This was the moment I had dreamt of, right? Total freedom. The most beautiful scenery dancing past. And… nothing.

This was probably a mistake, I decided then. I needed some air. I started walking toward the back of the car when I stepped on something soft and caught my sandal.

It was a little black notebook.

So similar to the one I had as a child, and so much better, I thought, than my wool snagging wiry old spiral pad.

I looked around. Nobody to notice. I picked it up and tucked it into my pocket. I’d check for a name later.

I never found one.

So I wound up reading what was in the book. Standing there, in the unpopulated train car. And what I found was incredible. It was a map for a story - a plot. A description of events so mesmerizing and fascinating, I wished it were a whole book so I could find out what happened next. The empty pages that followed were a punch in the gut, but I was hopeful that someone somewhere had already finished this story.

I did a quick web search for the storyline. I didn’t find anything close.

But when I returned to my own orderly lines to work on my so-called novel, the notebook plot kept breaking through. I couldn’t stop thinking of it, and something… changed. In me. My mind started placing together characters and scenes faster than ever before. I wanted to write the rest of that story!!

But I knew it was a waste of time. Wrong to even think about it.

After finally grabbing a breath on the open-air car, I needed a nap. Let this strange momentum subside and wake up refreshed, I thought.

I didn’t dream, which is very rare. I’m never actually sure if I’ve slept if I don’t dream.

Best time to get started.

Where was my journal? I looked everywhere, feverishly through all of my belongings. For what seemed like a while, but I couldn’t find my annoying spiral. Maybe it fell out when I was in the open-air car?

All I could find was that little black book.

"No harm in using the blank pages. Nothing of value in that other notebook anyways. My hand-knitted sweater will most certainly thank me."

As I flipped forward toward the blank section, I found writing in the later pages that I felt sure hadn’t been there before. Weren’t those pages all empty?! Was it always there? Is it just… appearing now? That’s madness.

But it was there. And It was incredible. The storyline I had wished was there just hours ago unfolded even better than I could have dreamed. Exciting twists, vivacious characters, such rich backstories! This was by far the juiciest piece of fiction I had ever feasted my eyes on.

"Obviously, I must have skipped over this section before. That's all." A simple mistake made with weary eyes. Now that I was refreshed, I was just more attentive.

I noticed the physical writing was a bit sloppy. Some of the letters were even backward. As if a child had scribed it. Anxious to find more, I flipped through the book again. Carefully. There was nothing further.

I was desperate. I had to break the writer’s block. Otherwise, this entire trip, not to mention my entire life, was worthless. So I threw caution to the wind and decided to add to the story. The notebook, I found, was magic, if a different kind of magic than I had thought. My every word was amplified by placing pen to those pages. Even the feel of the paper under my fingers made me feel so much… more. I had never been so inspired. Before I knew it, half of the book was filled. Day and night began to blend together outside the picture windows.

At one point my stomach growled loudly enough to shake me out of it. I walked to the dining car on autopilot. I vaguely recalled a man speaking to me there, and I later realized he had been flirting. Attractive. French. That was a man I should have invited for a drink in the club car. But I hadn’t. Because all I could think was… what if the notebook is his? I can’t stop now. I’m on literary fire!

And by the time I hit Paris, I had written a book.

I decided to publish it.

"The person who came up with these ideas, who lost the little black notebook, will surely come forward if the book goes big! And I’ll pay them their fair share."

From there, it was a whirlwind.

I received a $20,000 advance for the story. More money than I ever had at one time.

And then the book got famous.

It was optioned for a movie.

And I got famous.

And more so - I got RICH.

Nobody ever came forward. But I kept putting money into an account for that person, my muse, for ten years. At times I felt like a fraud. This wasn’t ME. I stole it. Whenever I was interviewed I’d always tell them “The story itself is my inspiration. It’s really the characters who’ve told me what they want."

The account grew bigger and bigger, as I grew crazier about the whole thing. "I can’t wait to give them their hundreds of thousands of dollars when I find them!!!" I spent less and less money and set more and more aside.

I looked for ways to give it away, huge philanthropic ventures, contests, scholarships, anything. Which made people love me even more.

I decided to come clean to my mother and my sister. My plan was to announce to the WORLD on all my platforms - the truth of this story. It was never mine. This would change everything, but at least I would have my integrity.

“I’ve got to tell the truth!" I raved at them, their eyes shining up at me from the daybed in my childhood room.

My mother looked at me and burst out laughing.

“Sweetheart, that was your notebook."

She explained.

“It was in your old backpack… the one you came home to borrow, and took to Europe with you. I slipped it in there. I figured it would be a nice surprise!”

“But.. no!! If that’s true - how did the story appear? How was it so familiar?? Why did I never remember writing it?” I could feel my whole identity slipping away.

“It was your dream journal,” my mother explained. “As a child, you would write some of your best work when you immediately awoke from your dream state. You preferred these little moleskins because of the texture, you always asked me to buy you these. You could feel for them even in the dark. And you would even, sometimes, write left-handed.”

I stood there in a near-catatonic state.

“When I found that one,” she said, “I was so pleased. I thought you would love to read how creative you’d been as a girl.”

I had been sleep writing stories all along.

These were my characters.

The story was mine.

The End