Person Writing Novels & Stories

“She told me to do what I always do. Get the facts right and let them be the argument.” Something moved through his face. Not surprise. Something that went deeper than surprise. The look of a man watching the person he loves be defined by her child and understanding that the child is exactly right. “Write it,” he said. “I’m going to.” She paused. “It’ll be personal. It’ll have details. Things that aren’t easy to put in writing.” “I know.” “It’ll have Zoe’s name. With her permission. She knows.” “I know.” “It might have your name.”

"This is what my life is now." "That isn't an answer," he said. "That's a description of circumstances. They're not the same thing." "In my world they are." "Then your world has convinced you of something that isn't true." He leaned forward slightly, his elbows on the table, his eyes not leaving mine. "What was it about? The writing. What did you write about?" I looked at my coffee. "People," I said, which was what I had told him about my painting and which was still true. "The underneath of people. The parts they didn't show."

"Are you writing one of those articles of yours again instead of just typing it in the computer?" Peter smiled faintly. "That's why you young folks have such terrible handwriting. You type everything into the computer." I had to laugh, even though my insides felt lava waiting to explode. But then, I stood up and went with Lucien.

The kind who had actually done the work instead of performing it for himself or anyone else. She opened the notebook she kept in the middle drawer. The pages flipped easily under her fingers to the one she wanted. Two fifteen in the morning after the premiere, heart still racing from the night, she had written the private version. The honest one with no pretty words or careful editing. Just what she actually wanted for herself, for them, written in her own messy handwriting. She read it slowly, line by line, letting every word settle again. Then she closed the notebook and rested her hand on the cover for a long moment.

That memory felt tainted now. Still crying, still angry, I marched into the kitchen and pulled out my checkbook.My fingers hovered over the top check. Just paper, but it felt like stone in my hand. Like if I wrote this, there’d be no walking it back. My throat burned. One deep breath, then another. I blinked twice and just… did it. Quick. Before my courage could blink too. My hand hesitated only once before I wrote it. One million. From my personal account. Under my maiden name, Sofie Davis.

“Stories. Essays. Anything. I’ve always been better with words than with paint. I like painting but… writing feels like I can finally say things I can’t say out loud. Even if no one ever reads them.” “What do you write about?” “People,” I say. “And all the ways they hurt each other. And sometimes… the ways they save each other.” She smiles faintly. “That sounds like a powerful way to process your own story.” “Maybe,” I say, and my voice sounds smaller than I want it to. “Or maybe it’s just a way to pretend it’s not mine.”

And lately, that picture has stopped resembling me. So I am writing this not as a designer. Not as a businesswoman. Not as a public figure. I am writing this as a person. As someone who has made mistakes. As someone who has chosen wrong before choosing right. As someone who has hurt and been hurt. As someone who still believes in the quiet power of starting over.

It was a pen that you fill with ink. "If I am the person writing my story then who is typing the words that are erasing my life?"

“I’m done having lunch with Mr. Anonymous. You want to tell me something? Say it now. Over the phone. Like normal people.” There was a pause on the line—short, but heavy. Then, quietly: “I’m a writer.” I blinked. “A writer,” I repeated slowly, more to myself than to him. “As in... books?” “No,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, even though he sounded nervous. “Well—sometimes. But mostly I write stories for brands. People. Companies. I help them find their voice. Sometimes under my name. Sometimes not. Depends.”