I started writing a book late last year. It’s a melting pot of magical realism, grief, and working through it. I thought very seriously about taking it to publishers, even speaking with some of my literary agent friends for their advice. But my undiagnosed ADHD was really messing with me tbh; I stayed up on a work night impulsively pulling together a 40-page book proposal. I think it would be a bad idea for me to really write a whole book, putting myself under pressure to make it *something*. I have enough going on and I’d surely drop it for the next short-lived hobby – which I did, I haven’t written a chapter or thought about it in months.
But this SubStack is a real haven for me. A creative outlet that I love sharing on. So I think I’m going to share the book here, chapter by chapter as (and if) it grows. So here’s the prologue. Thanks, as always, for reading.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Lord Byron
Alba woke up and could hardly move. The cold bit at her toes as she pulled her knees close, wrapping her duvet around her as tight as possible. She closed her eyes and whispered, “I miss you.” It spoke softly, with a knowing and warm voice, “I know.” Sitting up fast and clambering for the lamp on her nightstand, Alba switched it on and grabbed a pencil which she aimed like a sword at the stranger sitting before her. “Who are you?!” The thing sitting on her bed looked like a human, but not quite. Its body and skin moved, like it was constantly forming itself. Alba thought if she touched it her hand would go right through, that it would wrap around her fingers like a waterfall. It had wings too, like an eagle, or an angel.
“I don’t know,” it said calmly. “What do you think I am?”
“Are you an angel? Your wings.”
“I don’t think so. And I don’t have to have wings.” The wings disappeared into its body, absorbed like quicksand. Now it looked like a boy, only a boy made of sand.
“Do you have a name?”
“No, would you like me to? You can give me one.”
Alba thought for a moment. “My cat is called Oscar,” she said like a question.
“Okay. You can call me Oscar too.”
“Why are you in my room? What do you want?”
Oscar stood, “I am here to help you, and I cannot leave until I have done so.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Yes. You do.”