I'm Getting Published!

This is a story that will hopefully come true one day in the near future. Picture from pixabay.

A I sat on the bottom step of the stairs in wait of the postman I kept saying ‘maybe today’. I waited and waited until, finally, I heard the thud as three pieces of mail hit the laminate floorboards of the hallway floor.

Like every day, I hurried over to the scattered letters picking each one up individually and looked for one with my name on it. My heart fluttered as I picked the first one up off the floor soon to be disappointed, it was from the ESB for my mother. ‘The next one,’ I thought with certainty, ‘the next one is it!’ but yet again, I was let down. ‘One final chance!’ my heart sank as it was another bill addressed to my mother.

I gently placed the three pieces of mail on the sideboard and hung my head as I carried myself up the stairs to a blank page with a blinking cursor. I put some words onto the page and two hours later had the first draft of a short story.

After lunch I edited the short story and when I was completely happy, I put it in the folder labelled ‘finished’. I opened the file and saw that there were one hundred and four stories just sitting there, each one marking a day of disappointment.

I pottered around for the next few hours and ended up baking a batch of cookies. I bet the sugar and butter into submission, before sifting in the flour, baking powder and salt, then added the vanilla essence and finally the chocolate chips. I bunged them in the oven and baked them until they were done eighteen minutes later. As they cooked, I cleaned the kitchen.

Kitchen clean, cookies baked, I looked up at the clock in disbelief. ‘How could it only be four o’clock?’ I heard a wrap on the door. With the doorbell broken, I was lucky the caller had the gumption to open the porch door and use the knocker. ‘Probably Marie,’ I told myself. I wiped my hands in my MasterChef apron and proceeded to greet the caller.

My heart skipped a beat as I could see the outline of a man in green through the frosted glass. I moved a little quicker down the hall and opened the door…it was the postman.

‘I have a letter here for Mo Kelly?’ he stated as more of a question than anything else. I used the name Mo Kelly as my nom de plume. I came to the decision that because my grandmothers name was Moureen and her maiden name was Kelly that it would be a nice tribute to her.

As I looked at the postman, my heart felt like it had a kaleidoscope of butterflies in its stead, my stomach feeling as though a ton weight had been dropped in it. I cleared my throat, ‘I’m Mo,’ I gulped as he stretched his hand in my direction, his brow furrowed. I looked at myself and laughed, I was covered in flour. ‘I was just baking cookies,’ I explained smiling.

Eventually, after the postman’s outstretched hand started to tremble, I tentatively took the letter off of him and offered him a cookie. ‘No tanks love, I’m goin’ home to me dinner,’ he replied. He waved at me as he returned to his van that was parked at the end of the driveway. Unbeknownst to myself I just closed the door.

I sat on the bottom step of the stairs and looked at the letter. I examined how the scrawl of writing on the front of the eggshell-coloured envelope was meticulous. I heard my mother in the next room shout, ‘who was that?’ but I ignored her call. I was too focused on opening the piece of mail.

I gently put my thumb under a free edge of the sealed envelope and tenderly tugged at the gum that held it closed, my heart beating faster and faster as I went. It was the first time Mo Kelly had received any form of correspondence from anyone. My hands shook as I felt nervous and jittery. Maybe it was from all the sugar from the cookie I sampled, or maybe the feeling was valid and I just had to go with it. I carefully took out the letter that was inside, my mother still enquiring as to who was at the door. Silently I unfolded the letter and began to read.

I read the letter through the first time, the words not permeating into my brain. The second time I read it I was more thorough and looked at each word carefully. When my eyes reached the words: ‘we are delighted to inform you that we would be happy to publish your book,’ I let out a scream and dropped the letter onto the laminate flooring.

Hearing my scream, my mother got up from wherever she had been hiding and rushed to my side. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, her brow furrowed, her face red with annoyance that she had to get up from her comfortable chair. I could feel the blood drain from my own face, my stomach doing summersaults.

‘What’s wrong?’ she repeated. I tried to answer, but no words came. I felt sick with excitement as I picked up the letter and handed it to her. She squinted as she read it, her lips moving as she glanced at each individual word. A smile crept onto her face, swiftly followed by confusion.

‘Who’s Mo Kelly?’ she asked. I explained to her the reasoning behind my nom de plume and tears started to form in her eyes. I had told no one I even had a nom de plume, but it was especially fitting as my grandmother had only passed four weeks before.

My mother read the letter again as I rose, my head spinning and read it over her shoulder. When she was finished she turned to look at me; ‘your getting published?’ she asked, wondering if she had read the letter correctly. I began to cry and, instead of the stairs, I felt my back push against the wall as I slid all the way down until my bum made contact with the laminate floor with a thud. ‘I’m getting published!’ I whispered in disbelief after a couple minutes silence and wept, but they were happy tears. My mother sat in my usual spot on the stairs and joined me. I took the letter from her and read it once more. ‘I’m getting published!’ I said again and wiped my tears away with my MasterChef apron, flour attaching itself to my nose.

‘Your nanny would be proud!’ my mother told me. I closed my eyes and smiled, ‘I’m getting published!’