By James A. Heaton copyright 2024

She left me.

She packed her bags in her car and with tears in her eyes she said, when you have time for me let me know. It was useless for me to fight it; she had her mind made up. She was strong willed, the strongest woman I knew.

I was the opposite; I was weak and knew my only ability to say what I wanted to say was in a book. After all I was a writer and the only way I knew to communicate was with my words, my voice not so much. I was quiet and rarely had anything to say. It wasn’t because I was disinterested in her, no! Quite the opposite, I was in love with her, fascinated by her and wanted to say volumes to her. Did she know what it was like to sit in a room with her and be so quiet that it infuriated her? To her it was maddening but I had so much to tell her and the only way I knew to do it was to write down my words.

Sure, at first the love notes were cute and flattering but after a year of marriage she had grown tired of the nights we sat home alone, and I said nothing. I tried to talk but the words just wouldn’t come. If I pulled out a cigar and a glass of whiskey I could type forever, bring the characters to life. They would speak my words. And that is what she never understood, every book was me talking to her. Thousands upon thousands of words about love. Was this what every romance writer dealt with? Selective mutism? Did they have the inability to converse with the one they loved? It was maddening. What was the use in holding on? Why cling to this life, a life where I was a best-selling romance writer with women throwing themselves at my words, clinging is what they did. As if the character was real, but he was! It was me! It was my words to Mave. She was my muse and the true reason I wrote.

I only knew one way to mourn her leaving.

I headed up to the cabin. It didn’t mean anything to her that I had two bestsellers on the charts. It didn’t matter to her. That they both spoke my heart’s truth. She never read them. She just simply enjoyed the money that came in and the fame I received, but I don’t think she really enjoyed that. It took me away from her. Book signings and book readings all over the nation and I hardly had time to focus on my next book.

But that would be what this was. The one true romance book.

If there was one thing I learned on my way up the mountains, it was that she was an Angel, and I was the Devil. I loved her more than life, more than writing. And writing was everything to me, it was the stars and the moon, and it came to me so easy. I never had writer’s block.

Angels want for nothing and that is what she was to me, an angel. But that was wrong, she wanted my voice. I wanted the same thing. I should have used this time to get help, but writing was my therapy. A crazy man says he has voices in his head, and they stick him in a rubber room, a writer says that he has voices, and they say write a bestseller, and that’s what I did. I listened to the voices. They all said her name, Mave. And I loved that name, it was an Irish name given to her by her grandmother, it meant “she who intoxicates”. And that she did, more than the whiskey at my desk and in my glass.

I unpacked in the cabin, my old army pack full of a few clothes and my toiletries. I remembered my meds; God knows nobody wanted me off of them. My publisher just said remember to take your meds, we don’t need bad Will to appear. And he would if I didn’t take the pills. Bipolar was a bitch. And I know Mave worked hard to look past it. I knew she went to her mothers, that’s where she always went when she was mad.

I stopped and texted her.

Mave, I am at the cabin. I need to put this all out in words for you. Maybe then you will understand.

No reply.

She was still mad and hurt. But she could have the house back. I was fine out here in the place where I wrote my books. It was my paradise; sure, it was just an old cabin, but the owner had told of a story where a great writer had written a book here. He hinted at several of the greats but would never say who. But I had written six best sellers in this little wooden cabin with a generator for power. I had everything I needed, plenty of whiskey and a humidor full of my favorite smokes. I had my computers set up and a large, framed picture of Mave.

I sat down and lit up, time to write.

“The seas were rough as the ship fought the gods of the sea but the captain said Poseidon could kiss his ass, he was going to make time in the storm. He was insane and Richard knew it. But all Richard wanted was to see the woman he loved. He had been insane to take the job, to sail across the ocean to the New World and return with goods and supplies. But he knew with this one job he could afford to finally buy her the cottage she wanted in the hills, away from the noisy world of England.”

          I dove into the novel putting out seventeen pages and then I was spent. I crashed on the couch and looked at the picture of Mave. I missed her, part of me was just a wall covered in barbed wire and razor wire and she was the only one who could make it through those walls. Hell, it took me two valium just to get out of the house and the entire time I was travelling the country I lived off of them. I had severe social anxiety and the only thing that worked were those magic little pills, they did the job.

My mind wandered as I slumbered on the leather couch. Mave had picked it out, in fact she decorated the entire place. She bought me an antique desk and gave it to me as an anniversary present. It was a beautiful large oak desk with plenty of room for all my good luck charms.

But I worried me that she would finally be finished with me and find another. I wanted to tell her I was sorry and that I never wanted her in another mans arms. Why wasn’t I strong enough to just give her what she wanted?! It was so frustrating and what held me together was those vows we said, for better of for worse. This was the worst that we spoke of.

I fell off into sleep. I had written the bulk of the story in the car on the way up. The music helped, the saddest country songs I could find.

Writing was a combination of my warped mind, cigars and whiskey along with good music. When I was really into it I listened to instrumental guitar, hours of beautiful music that I got lost in. When I wanted to really hit the emotions I listened to an unknown musician from Nashville who made it big in my heart. Writing wasn’t just words, no you had to paint the picture. And my character Richard was hellbent on getting home across a dreadful sea, he would be captured by pirates who cut out his tongue because he talked so much about getting home to his true love. He begged for his release and the captain of the pirate ship ordered his tongue removed.

That’s how I felt, like someone had cut my tongue out. I dreamed the ending of the book and spent the next few days typing away.

Stephen King once said he types six pages a day, I was working on twenty a day, working day and night. Only going outside to clear my head and fill the warmth of the sun. Everything reminded me of Mave, I could tell her it would be the last time it happened but that would be a lie, I’d stop my mutism only to fall back into the old habits.

I wanted to tell her every day how beautiful she was, I wanted to notice the little things like the new lipstick or the weight that she had lost. Things a husband should notice and talk about, but I wasn’t capable.

Four days gone and I was three quarters of the way through with the book. I went back and polished the beginning and sent part of it to my agent. Within a day she wrote back that it was my finest work and she couldn’t wait until it was finished.

Again, I dove into the story.

“Without his tongue, Richard was left speechless and he lived in a world of quiet. He wanted to tell Andrea everything but the only thing he could think of was escaping and that he would do. He would do it tonight when the men were asleep, he would take a skiff from the side of the boat and sell where his compass took him. He would find his way back to her, he would find a way to tell her how much he loved her.”

This is the way it was with every story but this time I would make sure Mave read it, I would beg her and plead with her to please read it. And when she did she would understand how much I loved her. After all every character was about us and none of my characters had ever broken up and divorced. Surely I could write a story that would prevent this from happening to me.

I hadn’t shaved since I arrived and my beard was coming in nicely, I felt like Hemingway typing away in his home in Cuba with his whiskey and his old 1926 Underwood Standard Portable. But I was typing on a computer, far cry from a typewriter. I bet he would have loved the computer. It corrects your mistakes and makes editing a breeze. But I typed away, day and night and some days I wouldn’t sleep.

I texted Mave again.

I hope you understand why I have to do this; I have to write this book so you will understand. I miss you.

I waited for minutes for a reply and when I set my phone down it dinged a reply.

I quickly picked up my phone and read her reply.

I miss you. A simple reply and it cut deep, it cut so deep I bled.

She was still mine. But I needed to rectify all of this and the only way to do it was to finish the book.

It came down to the last paragraph.

“Richard battled the seas in his little skiff, his mouth still healing from the razor sharp sword that severed his tongue. He paddled day and night to the land in the distance. When he reached the beach he flung himself on the dry land and praised every god in the sky that he had reached home.”

“He found a man and tried to talk but the words didn’t come, the old man took him to a lady at the store and bought the man a child’s chalk board and gave it to him. He wrote out where he wanted to go and the man told him to take a horse, but to bring it back when he got himself straight. Good people did exist and he had found one. Angels on Earth, that’s what the man was.”

“He rode all day and night, famished and thirsty he fought the aches in his stomach. He reached town early the next morning and found the home he shared with Andrea. He knocked on the door as he pushed it opened. He found Andrea asleep in the bed and wrote down the words, I love you on the board. He tapped her arm as she awoke suddenly, startled and unsure of who this bearded man was sitting on her bed. It was Richard! She threw her arms around him and then read his board.”

“What has happened to you my love?”

“Richard wrote it all down and showed her. She burst into tears and hugged him. He was just happy to know he was home. They would work around the problem, they always had and they would do it again. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a beautiful necklace of gold with an enormous diamond mounted in the center.”

“He wrote, I stole it from the pirates and more, we will have enough to buy the cottage in the hills.”

“And with that she burst into tears and wrapped her arms around him, with the softest whisper she said, “I love you.”

          That was the end. I had finished.

Another two days of rewrites and editing and I sent it to my editor. She waited a day to reply.

She wrote back, “this is your finest work. I’m sending you a contract and pushing this out to the publisher. I’ll have a box of proofs sent to your house in a week.”

That week I spent working on myself. I took lots of walks and answered emails, the agent sent the artwork and I approved it, I really didn’t care, I wrote that book for one person and one person only.

I worked on talking, just talking to myself. I said all the things I wanted to say to Mave, I practiced it over and over. I had to beat these demons that plagued me and for a week I battled with them. At the end of the week, I packed up and shut down the generator and closed up shop for now.

I headed home and found that Mave was there. At the same time, I was pulling in the driveway and the delivery of the books was being dropped off. I wasted no time in getting them inside and opening them.

Mave came downstairs and stood in the kitchen. She looked at me and I took a deep breath.

“Mave, I know that I have been quiet. Its not my choice. I have so much I want to say to you. I want you to know that I notice your new lipstick and how much weight you’ve lost, I notice your new dress and how beautiful you look in it. All I want is us. I cant live this way.”

She was speechless for once. I opened the book and handed it to her and told her to read the dedication.

      To my wife Mave, I never have the words to say to you. That is why I write these books; every love story is about you. Every word has your picture hidden away from the world. You are my muse and my life. I love you.

She began to tear up, I could see the moisture in her eyes as she held the book.

“If you will just read this and you will know.”

“Will, I don’t need a book to tell me you love me. I need to hear it from your mouth.”

“I know that…I know it now. But this book is my story. It tells you every word I want to say.”

And for the next three days she stayed curled up in bed reading all through out the day. I waited patiently downstairs in my recliner. Our puppy sitting in my lap and I waited, I waited with a heavy heart. Three hundred and sixty pages of how much I loved her. It was a lot for anyone. Especially for a woman with a broken heart.

It took her three days to finish the book and she came down the stairs.

She was crying and not just a little cry it was Niagara Falls. I rushed to get her a tissue.

“I never knew. I never knew how hard it was for you. Its okay if your quiet, just every now and again tell me you love me.”

“So, you liked the book?” I asked, desperate for her approval, I could care less about the bestsellers list. I just need one woman’s approval, one woman in all the world to tell me that it was good. I craved it, it was like dying of starvation.”

“I want to read all your books. I never knew you spoke to me with the books you write. I had no idea that you had so much trouble talking. Was it really like having your tongue cut out?”

“Worse, I had a tongue but couldn’t use it. I practiced for a week everything I wanted to tell you everything I couldn’t say all of these years.”

“I am so sorry. I never knew.”

“I want to share it all with you, just be patient. I will work harder every day. And I will start seeing the counselor again. I want to conquer this because I cant stand another heart break. I thought I was going to lose you.”

“It would take a lot more than that. I just got tired of the silence. But I understand now and nothing can tear us apart. Do you really write every book about me?”

“Every single word. Every single damn word. For you.”

The End