nice euphemism for fame. Though I fucking loved people knowing me all over the world.
And I didn’t write for the letters, emails, or messages on social media. Though they meant more to me than I’d ever say out loud.
No, I wrote always for one thing.
Myself.
My sanity.
That was why I began writing, after all. As a last-ditch attempt to save my growingly depraved mind. Not a “calling” or a “dream” or whatever I told various interviewers. It was my Hail Mary; ironically since I routinely write about the Anti-Christ and demons.
And, lo and behold, it worked.
Pouring out my most depraved, sickening, and disturbing thoughts onto a page, I finished the book. The first one. Full of demons and sickness. I didn’t even read it over. I couldn’t. I needed it as far from me as I could. It was a virus. Deadly. Contagious. I couldn’t touch it because I would infect myself all over again.
So, I Googled the best agents in New York and sent it out. Sure, I expected something, but don’t we all? We know the stats about the people that “make it” in any industry. One percent get it. But still, we all think we’re the one percent.
I definitely had a hefty dose of youthful arrogance, but my life had forced me to develop a wise amount of cynicism. So, I prepared myself for disappointment. For rejection.
And I didn’t get it.
Instead, I got a letter and an invitation to New York.
I was lucky.
Incredibly so.
For the first, and I think the last time in my life.
The rest is history.
Which you can readily look up on the internet.
So yeah, there were plenty of reasons why I was here, why I needed to be here.
But mostly because I could feel myself slipping into a dark, prickly hole in New York and finding myself in the middle of nowhere.
I was here to save myself.
With my laptop and my fucked-up imagination.
My realtor had been kind enough to stock the fridge with a lot of the essentials.
Well, essentials for the kind of person who buys a cottage in the middle of the woods. Cheese. Milk. Bread. Shaved meats. Cereal.
Not really essential for someone like me, who was afforded all the luxuries I wanted. Conscious about my weight to the point of obsession. Allergic to dairy and gluten with the internet, various magazines, and overpaid nutritionists to diagnose me.
Also, I was a thirty-something-year-old woman living not only in New York, but in the spotlight. And though I dodged almost every single cliché attached to my demographic like a barnacle, my body image problems stayed about right in line with that.
Hence the Botox. Fillers. Seven-hundred-dollar hair appointments. Facials. A diet that consisted of kale, almond milk, organic vegetables, and an avoidance of carbs like they were carriers of the plague. I was strict about this in a way that bordered on some type of disorder. Sure, I had at least three different kinds of disorders, but I was on the fence if I had one about eating. Approximately ninety-one percent of women were unhappy with their bodies. So, in this respect, I was not on the fringes.
I was with the herd. The herd dieting, starving themselves, exercising every day, taking supplements, getting surgery, buying clothes one size too small for “motivation.”
I truly despised this about myself, but I was too vain to change it. And I didn’t allow myself slip-ups. Not one piece of cake. Not one burger. It didn’t work that way for me. Nothing worked that way for me. Despite my preference for missing meals, I had gone a long time without eating and I wasn’t stupid. I fueled my body with nutrients. With what it needed to be strong, defend myself. I was in a cabin in the middle of the woods, alone, and as much of a genuine asshole as Ernie seemed to be, he knew I was here alone. On the off-chance he was the serial killer or had some friends who liked to eat human flesh, I didn’t want to faint trying to fight back because I was fucking hungry.
So, I was forced to get back in the car I’d spent hours in and drive back toward town in search of something that wouldn’t make me hate myself.
And whisky.
Something that would at least quell the self-hatred, and hopefully help with the absolute lack of ideas I had and the fear of opening my laptop.
My driveway seemed longer on the drive out, stretching further and further, potholes, trees, no civilization surrounding