The birds chirped, sirens wailed, Harlem awoke from an evening’s slumber. Weekend mornings were filled with literary stimulation. Strolling past brownstone lined sidewalks, orange leaves painting the gritty grey sidewalk; lust ravaged my heart. “Coffee, coffee, gimme coffee.”
Brownstones disappeared; tenements enchanted the hazy senses, while clouds paraded in nature’s blank canvass. More enchanting than finding the lost mummies, was finding a seat at my local coffee house.
Espresso machines steam, beans sizzled, and bagels popped out of conventional toasters. In typical weekend fashion, I take out my library of books from my murse and sip on a vanilla soy latte (my favorite weekend treat).
On a particularly grey Saturday, something went missing. “Shit, where is my Batman notebook? I just came up with another brilliant idea” I didn’t quite hyperventilate, but quickly jotted down the idea on my phone (which is not preferable).
Racing back to my apartment, I dug for my super hero notebook. It had my ideas and the outline for my novel. Digging through laundry, I couldn’t find it. Setting a flashlight underneath the couch, it became even more illusive. Sitting on my bed, I remained calm as a decaf coffee.
“It must be in that care package, I sent dad. That’s it, I accidentally sent it.” The package arrived at my father’s Riverside home. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the notebook.
Panic and paranoia settled like fog from the Hudson. Would my beloved notebook fall into the wrong hands? It terrified me. I didn’t exactly write the outline for another Pulitzer Prize winning novel, but I had an emotional attachment to story.
If someone saw my outline, they may steal my idea and publish my novel. Anxiety ravaged my senses. In order to unwind, I paid a visit to the local bookshop.
Charmed by the titles, I imagined my future novel within the shelves of bookshops, everywhere. Book sales would afford me a small craftsman style home, antique typewriter, and piles of books
“Tear, tear, but my notebook is missing. I might not ever come up with another book idea. Goodbye, craftsman style house, book signings and Cocker spaniel watching me type away.”
Retail therapy helped. I bought loads of good books at dramatically reduced prices. After admiring my purchases, another dig for that precious notebook, commenced.
Opening a filing cabinet, paperwork filled its very brim. I dug, nervously. Alas, the notebook could not be found. Feeling desperate, I sorted through the paperwork, again. Then the book gods granted me a sight grander than uncovering a rare Shakespearean manuscript.
Lit in faded glory, my Batman notebook. I couldn’t believe it. My dreams of a craftsman style home, cocker spaniel, and book signings were lovingly restored. Dead poets, authors, and playwrights paraded in joy. I grabbed the notebook and caressed it, as though it were a long lost relative.
Eventually, I kept my notebook in a safe place. Afterwards, I commenced on the third draft of my novel. If awards and acclaim didn’t reach my sensibilities, giving up on my dreams of writing a novel wasn’t an option.