Aspen, and now, I was watching the mayor of New York City’s summer home in the Hamptons. And the mayor had a damn good selection of alcohol.
“Jefferson’s Ocean: Aged at Sea,” I muttered to myself.
Good enough for me. I grabbed the bottle and went in search of everything else I needed.
Fifteen minutes later, I had the stack of papers, a packet of matches, and the bottle of bourbon. I hoisted a shovel onto one shoulder on my way out the back door. When I hit the sand, I kicked off my shoes, grabbed a fistful of my flowy dress, and traipsed across the beach. My eyes were cast forward, and I moved with a sense of determination. The sun had finally left the horizon, throwing me into darkness, which was good, considering I was about to commit arson.
When I reached the soft sand right before the waterline, I dropped my supplies and dug my shovel into the sand. The first shovelful was incredibly satisfying. I took out my frustration and aggravation on that hole. Driving into the sand like I could erase the words from my brain. The tension in my shoulders intensified as I dug until I hit the wet sand beneath, and then I tossed my shovel to the side.
I reached for the supplies, and with my foot on the pages so that they didn’t blow away, I unscrewed the top of the bottle of bourbon and took a large mouthful. The liquid burned its way down my throat. I sputtered and then took another.
That made me feel steadier. More alive. I shuddered as the alcohol hit me and then put it aside before retrieving the most important part of all of this.
Every rejection letter I’d ever gotten in the last two years, including the latest batch my agent had just sent over.
My eyes skimmed over the first page before I balled it up and threw it into the pit. A smile stretched on my face as I tossed page after page after page in the sand. Forty-seven pages of kindling.
I grinned wickedly, ready to put all of this rejection behind me.
I snatched up the bottle of bourbon and liberally poured it on the pages, like adding milk to cereal. Careful to move the bottle far enough away so that it wouldn’t blow up in my face, I snatched up the box of matches.
“This is for you,” I called up to the moon. “My ritual burning, my offering of this energy. Just take it away and help me start over.”
I struck the match against the box and dropped it into the pit. When the first spark touched the fuel, the papers burst into flames, sending a jet of flames up toward the heavens. I laughed and danced in a circle around the flames, already feeling lighter.
So, maybe this book wasn’t the one. Maybe this hadn’t changed the world. But maybe the next one…or the next one. And, even if it was none of them, I was a writer. I would never stop writing.
A weight dropped off my shoulders, and I tilted my head back toward the moon. I flung my hands out to the sides and did a poorly executed turn, tripped over my own feet, and landed in a heap in the sand. But nothing could stop the euphoria that settled in my chest. Who knew it would be so liberating to burn my rejection letters?
All I’d wanted was to change my luck and let the past go, but damn I felt like a million bucks.
The flames grew and grew, burning through the last two years of my life. And I rode the high as power threaded through me, leaving me drunk and not just from the bourbon.
Jumping back to my feet, I didn’t even bother glancing down the beach. No one was in the Hamptons during the off-season. That was why I’d been hired to take care of the place during the interior renovation. Just last weekend, wealthy children of wealthy businessmen and wealthy politicians and wealthy celebrities had flocked to these beaches and overrun them at all hours of the day. But tonight, I was safe.
I wrenched at the bottom of my dress and lifted all the many layers of flowy material over my head. Tossing it into the sand, I unclasped my bra and discarded it as well. Then with a cry of triumph, I walked with my head held high