The Broken-Hearted Writer

Susannah stared at the book with her name on the front cover and tried to remember how she'd got here. There had been a week, perhaps more, that she couldn't recall any of. After that there had just been terrible pain and grief. For a life lost. If only it hadn't been for a selfish reason she would have felt more able to grieve and move on. But she wasn't grieving for anyone else, just herself. Her whole life had been mapped out in front of her, the wedding dress picked out, the as yet not conceived children's names thought of, the date set. Then there had been nothing. Nothing to plan for but a life empty of everything she'd expected. There had been that one bright glaring moment when he'd said the words then that week never to be remembered, then nothing. What was there to do? Susannah had filled days after that being consoled and pitied. That had been something. But then even that had petered out. There was only so much sympathy people were willing to dish out. After that limit was reached Susannah had been expected to get on with things, find somebody else. But she couldn't. There were no things to get on with, not any more. And she didn't want to find anybody else. Because finding somebody else meant risking that pit again. Thankfully, she didn't remember much of it but she didn't want to risk reliving it. If her mind wouldn't allow her to remember it, it couldn't have been good. She found a way to carry on with life somehow. The heartbreak got a little less with each passing day but it never faded completely, rearing its ugly head once in a while lest she forget what her life might have been like. A lucky escape, she told everybody, she was better off. But it didn't convince them and it didn't convince her. And Susannah remained alone. Drifting aimlessly through life, unable to find a path that matched the one she'd already had laid out. Alone was better, she couldn't be hurt if there was nobody to hurt her. Although sometimes the loneliness was too much to bear. So she retreated into another world. Susannah became a devoted Trekkie. Because in that world people fought and died for each other, they had intimate moments and the next episode it was like nothing had happened. The slate was wiped clean every week, the counter reset to zero. But one thing usually remained and that was the wonderful fact that the characters cared about one another, fiercely and deeply. And they were heroic and frank with one another, and they were usually exactly what they seemed. Things which were rarely true of people in whatever passed for the real world. She watched every episode she could get her hands on, spent any spare money on buying the DVDs and watching them over and over, immersing herself in this fantastic world where the good guys won and the bad guys lost and everything was beautiful and bright. An excellent memory and a real feel for character meant that Susannah quickly became an expert on the shows. At her dead-end job, or at home, or in the time in-between she found her mind wandering and creating new scenarios for her favourite characters. At first these daydreams remained in her head. One day she wrote down one that particularly appealed to her in a notebook. Then she wrote another, and then another until the notebook was full. The stories weren't very long, no more than a thousand words usually, but she enjoyed writing them, it made her feel like a part of the wonderful world that helped her cope with the real one. Susannah began to post messages on a fan internet site and became the resident expert, thanks to her excellent memory. She let slip that she'd written some stories and the other faceless names on the screen asked to read one. Not seeing what harm it could do she posted one of her favourites, one of the shortest. The other fans had nothing but praise for the story and congratulated her on her grasp of the characters involved. Susannah took another look at the notebook and, despite her own natural inclination to modesty, realised that she did have rather a knack for character development. And wasn't that so often what science fiction was about? Ordinary characters in extraordinary circumstances. Without the characters, the circumstances were pointless. She posted a couple more stories, and even tried other websites. For each story she received praise and congratulations. But Susannah was quite happy to keep it at that. She enjoyed writing her stories and the boosts to her ego from the other fans couldn't hurt. And then something remarkable happened. The editor of a sci-fi magazine e-mailed and asked if she would write a series for their magazine. At first she was going to refuse. She was no writer, just a person who made up stories about something she liked. It occurred to her that this was exactly what defined a writer and she agreed. Over a lunch after her last submission, the editor encouraged Susannah to enter a few competitions, there was no money he said but she was a good writer and deserved to win them. So she did. And she won. And continued to submit to the magazine whenever the editor asked her. The editor put her in touch with a literary agent. This seemed like a step too far but the editor was fairly insistent and Susannah had come to think of him as a friend. She hadn't had one for quite some time and she wanted it to last so she did as he asked and met with the agent. After that her feet didn't touch the ground, there was a dizzying array of publishers and meetings and letters to production companies and a lot of time at her computer. And now here she was, holding a book with her name and a photo of her favourite character striking a heroic pose on the front cover. Her life hadn't been the way she expected. She'd thought nothing would ever be the same, that nothing would be right again. The world had been a harsh and featureless place. Now it was bright and clear and filled with spaceships and characters she had come to know like they were real. Now it was a different world. But it wasn't a lonely one any longer and she didn't mind a bit. Checking her watch she realised that she was going to be late for her date with the editor. She put down the book (facing outwards on a prominent part of the shelf) and hurried out of the bookshop.