Rocky coast of Maine…
(excerpt from The Island on the Edge of Normal, Get the full books here.)
That evening I wrote down by the water once more. It was nearly impossible to do, but maybe that was part of what I liked about it. I had to wedge myself into a seat that was not especially comfortable, and I squinted just so I could see my page. On occasion I held a flashlight between my teeth, but it always left me tempted to reread things.
One day a professor of mine tells me to stay away from fiction. She means it as a compliment, but all I hear is that I lack imagination. She’s twenty years older than me and every guy in my class wants to sleep with her. I love her and hate her, and I get myself off thinking about her dragging me into her office to give me private lessons.
For two months I write about her nonstop. When I write she’s either in my bed or against the blackboard in the lecture hall. I write down every little detail, describing the way she stands and how she holds the chalk. I write about her voice and her shoes, and my fantasies never end.
There is no fiction in what I want.
The page took forever to catch. I tried six times to get it lit, but the wind was strong and the paper was damp. I didn’t want to think about school and I didn’t want to remember the notebooks I filled with insane fantasies, but it was all there anyway. I laughed at myself as I remembered, but it was tinged with guilt and possibly a touch of shame.
When the page finally caught I held it out over the rocks until it burned my fingers. It blackened my skin and left a sticky stain that I couldn’t rub off. I closed my eyes to the wind and tried to let it all go. The memory was gone, the words were gone, and I was somewhere new. The island could take care of its own.