The Writing Folder

Posted: March 20, 2018 by Rachel

It’s been a bit of a strange morning. The sky is solid grey, not a cloud in sight. There’s almost no sun. The house feels cooler than normal, and my new wool socks just don’t seem to be cutting it. Probably I should just slip into a warm bath, light a candle, make a fresh cup of coffee that hasn’t gone cold. But, oh, that’s right—I have to work.


I’ve been working on something new this year. It’s definitely not a romance novel. It seems silly that it took me so long to realize this “new thing” is probably what I was meant to be doing all along. But there’s comfort in knowing it happened now, rather than a year from now. I’ve always carried around this regret over having not started writing seriously sooner. But, I digress. That’s not really what I was thinking about when I sat down to write today.

There’s this folder in my documents that has moved from computer to computer over the years. It’s aptly named, Writing. I clicked through it a little this morning; all the years of Nanowrimo attempts (and a few wins), the word documents titled “untitled” or “new story” that contain little more than a few short paragraphs. I’m great at beginning; but not so great at finishing.

As I clicked through the folders within folders within a folder, I got the idea that maybe there’s something in there worth continuing. A diamond in the rough. And so I started reading over a few things. While most of it is absolute garbage, there were some pieces that took me right back to the past, as though it were the present:


Dean is doing that thing again where he paces the room, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s making me crazy, and I want to tell him so. Instead, I watch him. Back and forth, back and forth. And then I drop my head and begin to cry.

“How?” he asks, for the third time.

I’ve got my head in my hands but I lift my gaze to meet his. A small chuckle breaks through my whimpers. “I think we both know how this happened.”

Dean stops pacing. “You’re really laughing right now? This isn’t funny, Brigette.”

I clear my throat. “No, I suppose you’re right.”

He resumes his pacing. I focus on the rhythmic click clack of his shoes along the tile floor. I align my breathing with his steps, willing my heart to slow.

“A baby, Brig?” his voice is incredulous. “We don’t want kids, remember? We both agreed on that from the very beginning.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

I know what he wants me to do. But he’s going to have to be the one to say it.


Something started, but not finished.