I'll Never Finish This Book

EIGHTEEN

December 15

That morning, I wrote twenty-seven pages. After having been plagued by writer's block, I was unsure whether to thank the caffeine or the infomercials I had stayed up the previous night watching. With the pressure from Debra and George, I wrote a lot at once to avoid doing so later.

To celebrate, I took a well-deserved break. I closed the document and browsed the internet for funny videos. Eli took over the television to watch police chase videos that he failed to realize were staged.

Watching online videos happened in cycles; I told myself I would watch just one, then I'd convince myself that one more wouldn't hurt. This continued until hours went by.

"Eli, why can't I see the last three chapters I wrote?" I called out of my bed.

"We've been through this before," he mumbled, not taking his eyes off the TV.

"No, I'm serious." My heart sunk, and I was covered with a cold sweat.

He sat up on the couch. "Your writing is great. I can picture it."

"No, I mean, why can't I actually see them on the page? They're not on my screen. Where'd they go?" The thread of hope I was hanging on to keep me from panicking.

He walked over to the bed and sat beside me. Placing the laptop on his lap, he closed the document and opened it again before scrolling down to where the current pages should have been. There was nothing. That thread of hope was cut.

"Looks like they didn't end up saving," he spoke reluctantly.

"What do you mean? Get them back!" I spoke as if it were his fault.

"I can't do that if they weren't there to begin with."

I ignored his words. "You can get them back, right?"

"No, they weren't saved."

"But I saved them," I defended, unsure of who I was trying to convince.

"Not much we can do now."

"Oh no," I grunted, falling back onto the pillow. "I have to turn them in by tonight! I knew I shouldn't have waited this long! It's over," I sobbed.

"No, it isn't. You can still come up with something."

"How?" I squeezed my eyes shut to stop myself from forgetting what I had written.

"Can't you send in something you've already written?"

"They'll know. I've tried that before. They're, like, smart."

He thought for a moment. "I have something that can help."

My eyes flew open. "Please, not another one of your ideas; they're the reason I'm in this mess."

"I'm gonna pretend I'm not hurt."

"It's not personal, Eli. My life literally depends on this book."

"This idea will help, I promise."

My high school English teacher had us write about memories for our last assignment. We had to write about a significant memory or memories from our lives that impacted us. Although writing was easy for me, that topic gave me trouble. My memory did a lousy job of remembering things. Whenever I met a person, it took me about two weeks to remember their name, and until I remembered it, I'd just call them by some nickname I felt suited them. Perhaps my mom knew what she was doing when she told me to keep a journal. Maybe it wasn't a way for me to express myself, rather a place to keep everything written down because she knew my memory was so bad.