Leap: The Sequel to Jump

Writing Once More

Dear Evan Hansen (Murphy),

Gee, you're really great at keeping up with these. You haven't written since the wedding! You can't blame it on writer's block because it's letters to yourself. About your life.

Okay, maybe you felt that you didn't need to write these letters any longer. Your anxiety has lessened a little, and you should be proud of yourself. Really, really proud of yourself. Pat yourself on the back! Not literally, unless you want to, of course.

Well, just from that it's pretty clear that you haven't shaken it all, but that's more than okay. You've got this, Hansen. You're living your dreams! You are a freaking writer! Living with freaking Connor! And you're happy! So, so HAPPY! And more confident, too!

Smile a little more, Evan Hansen. It suits you :).

Sincerely, Me

Tap, tap, tap. My pencil hits the desk slowly but then picks up in pace, doing a dance and echoing a small sound as I reread the letter. The first letter that I've written to myself in what feels like ages, even though it has only been a few years.

I don't know why I decided to take out a piece of lined paper and start writing those three words at the top, and then decided to write a letter. So much has happened since the last time I wrote, and how am I supposed to capture all of that on paper? 

Some people may say that Connor and I are young to be married, but this twenty-six year old disagrees, and does not regret it one bit. We had our wedding at the orchard, and it was beautiful. There was the perfect amount of sun with only a few cotton candy textured clouds framed in the sky, and the small whoosh of wind in the air that made the taller blades of grass perform a dance made it feel like it was out of a fairytale. Having my mom and Connor's family there to share the joy and love with made the day feel perfect. Two friends, true friends, on a perfect day.

A quiet hum escapes my lips as I swoon to my memories, a hand supporting my face. After a moment, I pick up the letter and hide it away in a drawer, underneath some very loved notebooks filled with scribbled on pages.

I still can't believe that I'm a writer now. An almost professional, real writer. I am able to write for a living. That's crazy. For our wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy gave us an extremely generous monetary gift, and Connor insisted that I take some of it in order to transfer from taking some classes at a local community college to being a full time student somewheres. No matter how much I disputed his offer, he persisted in his insistence that I get my degree in Creative Writing, and now, well, I must say that I'm glad I took him up on that offer. I've been writing for some columns at various magazines here and there, and I sent in a draft to a couple publishing agencies of a story I've been working on for a couple of years. What's so nerve-wracking about it all is that you can't predict your success. How am I supposed to know if I've got some sort of "one-hit-wonder"?

A smile brightens my face when the sounds of Connor tuning his guitar enters my ears. He took up the instrument a few years ago and is an incredible performer. He can get pretty shy about it and does not easily take compliments, but I still love to listen in from upstairs. I can tell that he loves to strum away, but he's a bit afraid to admit it. I guess that's how I am with my writing. Having people read something you've poured your heart into can be scary. You never know how they are going to react.

I pull out my computer and flip the screen up, a pit of anxiety and excitement filling my stomach as I navigate my way to my inbox. For the past few months, there have been scattered rejections, but a part of me is still hopeful. I let out a sigh as I skim my eye over emails about promotional offers at stores and news articles, but then I stop in my tracks.

An email from a publisher.

Sweat begins to form in my palms. The feeling in my stomach intensifies. It's probably another rejection. Another, we aren't looking for this type of story at this time. It always is. I wipe my hands on my pants. I begin to bite one of my fingernails. Still struggling to kick the habit, especially at times like these. The sound of Connor flitting his fingers across the strings intensifies then becomes a noise that seems far away. This happens every time. I can't believe I still get anxious like this. I know what it's going to say. I take a deep breath.

Dear Evan Hansen,

I am ecstatic to let you know that the proposal for the novel you submitted has been accepted for publishing.

My eyes widen. Maybe I didn't know what it was going to say. The words continue, but I can't. I read the first line over again and again and again. A shaky smile fills my face as tears begin to well in my eyes. This can't be real. I'm being published. I wrote a book. I'm getting a book published. I'm a writer. I'm living my dreams.

I stay frozen at my desk, but rest my head after a moment and begin to sob. My face hurts from the overly grand smile that stretches from cheek to cheek. I hear the door open a bit and sit up, wiping my tears.

"Is everything alright, Ev? Why are you crying?!" an overly concerned Connor asks as he rushes into the room. He must have heard me from downstairs. The smile doesn't leave my face, leaving Connor looking confused. I see Connor's eyes turn to my computer where the letter is now dimmed on the screen. His finger bounces on the mousepad, the screen brightens, and I watch his face turn to excitement. 

"YOU'RE GETTING PUBLISHED" Connor practically screams, pure joy filling his voice. 

"I'M GETTING PUBLISHED" I say in response, my voice shaky and cracking from the tears. I stand up and Connor embraces me while we jump up and down together. After a few minutes, we fall backwards onto the bed. I stare up at the ceiling, breathing heavy, happy breaths. 

"I knew you could do it," Connor said, his beaming smile mirroring mine.

We stare into each others eyes. How is this real? How is any of it real?

Maybe those letters bring me more luck than I thought.