somehow taken on the same shape: feet stretched to the sunny end of the bed, head angled toward the window where the sweet scent of pine wafts in on the breeze. I point my bare feet, stretching tired but happy muscles and Calypso arches her own scrawny cat feet. One black paw rests on my shoulder as she continues to snooze. I would mimic her, but it’s time to rise.
Today’s goal? Finish the western manuscript. There is only one chapter left to edit. I snag my laptop from the desk and plop down on the rug in the center of the room. Legs folded in, I uncap my water bottle and pull up the documents needed to start the day. Back in the wild west, I pour all my focus into the final pages, all the while tallying up some closing thoughts that I’ll share with the author. The hero and heroine had a dynamic chemistry and it was engaging from start to finish.
Is editing a sweet romance like this hard? It can be at times, and I’ll admit, there were a few charming moments when this one got me reflecting on my own encounters with men and new love. And yes, it was difficult more than a few times to remove my own heart and experiences from those of the heroine, but I don’t want that bittersweet feeling to stop me from exploring new worlds and places through story.
I’m grateful for a chance to be part of another upcoming book in this way. To help make it shine. I’ve already drafted up her editorial letter which explains the bulk of my insights and suggestions, while also inviting her feedback on what she decides to do. We’ll go back and forth over the next few weeks as she dials in the story more, but as I reach the final sentence on her manuscript, most of my input is now finished.
I do a little victory dance right there on the rug, then cue up a fresh email to send to the author. After writing a friendly note, I make some final additions to the six-page editorial letter and attach it along with the manuscript. With a single tap, it’s sent off. My heart feels lighter. Not only to have accomplished the three-week task, but because it seems possible to survive on editing alone. Should article writing not pan out, and should my own novel idea flop, there’s still a way to move forward and stay afloat. All the while sticking to my convictions and pursuing work that builds me up, instead of the other way around.
Leaning back, I stretch again. Calypso squints down at me from the bed. Her head is at the edge and she’s half-awake, half-sleeping.
The clock on the dresser blinks 10:03, so I rise and slide a bagel into the toaster. Once breakfast is in hand, I move my laptop to a more stable surface. With the email tab open, it’s easy to glance through the latest messages. The bagel stills midway to my mouth. The top email is from my old magazine editor. Why would he be contacting me? Cramming the bagel between my teeth frees both hands to angle the computer screen better.
Hi Sadie,
Just wanted to touch base with you since we spoke last. Your column has performed very well this month. Your piece has garnered more opens on our website than any other article in this issue, and of the last quarter all together. I share this with you to spark more of the conversation—would you be interested at all in returning? Our readers are eating up this content. Would you want to send us more content on this type of subject? Get back to me when you’re able. I’ve included a screenshot of the stats below. Of course, we’d also like to begin the conversation of your pay and how we might incentivize you to return. The conversation is wide open, Sadie, so let’s hop on the phone soon and I’d like to hear your thoughts.
My gaze falls to the attached screenshot. That huge spike in readership? It’s tagged with the name of my article. My article. It’s hard to absorb this as shock takes over.
Yet within a few seconds, the spark and glory of the moment start to fade. Instead, reality grows colder. This article was painful to write. Being an advisor for relationships required me to write content that is so different than my own reality which has taken a toll. I also had to come face-to-face with realities and dreams that might not be mine in the future. Another hit to the emotional bank. Do I want to keep toiling in a world that is completely different than mine? Is it worth the income? The accolades? Editing a sweet romantic novel is one thing—I can immerse myself for a little while in that world because I’m not trying to be someone I’m not. But the column? I was having to wear a hat that just no longer says Sadie.
I nibble the tip of my thumb, completely forgetting about the half-eaten bagel. Closing my eyes, I take a moment to imagine what going back would look like. It would mean pushing back the articles that are important to me. Articles that would speak from the very core of my existence. Instead, I would put on that mask again—the mask that indicates I’m an expert on dating and can help couples navigate the early days of a new relationship. That I can guide them that much closer to—as my editor put it—saying yes to the dress. An elegant white gown that I may, in reality, never have the chance to wear.
Is that the world I want to keep writing in when there are women just like me who yearn for content to read that promotes joy, peace, and affirmation even in singleness?
Mouth dry, I take another sip of cold water then close the email tab. Better yet, I shut the laptop entirely. I need some time to think about this. Pushing the computer away, I stand.
Time for some fresh air. I needed to run to the grocery store anyway to stock up on a few goodies for Sammy. There’s also something I want to grab at Valley Outfitters for the competition. Might as well head over now. The sky outside is darkening with what could be a coming rainstorm so I polish off the bagel while I change, then nab the Jeep keys and head out.
It only takes a few minutes to drive to the grocery store. Once there, I load a handled basket with a box of macaroni and cheese, a jug of chocolate milk, and fresh strawberries. The cashier rings the items up and loads it all into a paper bag. I jog the loot back out, Jeep-bound. But I’m not ready to go home quite yet.
Large plops of raindrops decorate the asphalt, as I climb in and close the door. I flip on the headlights and it feels nice to be behind the wheel and out of the splattering mist. On the highway, I cruise the same path I first took nearly a month ago. Driving in the same lane. . . past the same buildings and street signs . . . retracing steps that remind me of how different life feels than even a few weeks ago. Of how important being true to yourself really is. Not in a selfish way of wanting the world to revolve around me but in using the gifts and talents I have for an honest purpose. To create content I love in an authentic way. The idea of returning to the magazine and of even getting a raise buzzes inside my brain as I hit the blinker, ready to turn right.
The thing is, I don’t want to force advice and tips anymore. Romance? Engagement? Even marriage? It’s time to leave those topics to writers who can better speak into the lives of couples. Time for me to free up that space for someone more equipped and able.
The parking lot of Valley Outfitters is quiet. Since it’s Thursday, the crowd is mellow so it’s easy to find a spot close to the front. Easy to dash through rain drops and into the foyer of the store. I swipe the dampness from my bangs and instead of grabbing a shopping cart, simply enter and breathe in the smells of neoprene, wood, and charcoal. It smells like adventure in here. I take a second breath to settle myself.
I, Sadie McGillis, don’t want to talk about wedding dresses.
Another few steps . . . another aisle.
I want to talk about the spark and passion that comes from discovering a different path. I want to chalk up and face the unknowns. Experiences I could even clip into if brave enough to try. Not chase dreams that have fallen flat time and time again.
More steps. More hope.
While I will still long every day for God to bring a good man into my life, I also want to thrive in the here and now. And this? This is my here and this is my now. It’s trying new things. It’s laughter with friends. It’s time spent with Sammy and even my family. It’s falling off walls and getting back up and trying again. It’s knowing that every time I do, it becomes an opportunity to grow and become just a little bit wiser. This life is a little out of the ordinary and even at times kind of lonely—but it’s the life I’ve been given. Time to keep making the most of it.
I explore the back of the massive store in the now-familiar rock climbing section. My spirits already feel lighter surrounded by ropes, carabiners, and helmets. I’ve never climbed outdoors. It honestly seems so intimidating. But I’ll admit—it’s been rising on my bucket list the last few weeks. Right now, with the competition so near, there’s one item that will come in handy at Rock Central.
I peruse the aisles, looking for a chalk brush. It’s something that speaks to me, right where I am. Not who I once was or may be some day. But me. Today. A celebration of life and of all that has brought me to this season. I spot just what I’m looking for on a rack beside designer chalk bags. There, a bucket holds small brushes—made out of different kinds of materials. My own chalk bag has a slot for one, but I just never saw the need yet to buy a chalk brush. In my mind, those were always used by advanced climbers who clean the holds to increase their chances of conquering a difficult boulder. I’ve been on such basic routes that a brush like this seemed unnecessary. But now is the time. It’s time to stop fearing I’ll look like a phony. Like I don’t belong. Instead, it’s time to take one more step forward and rise one more notch higher.
The brushes clatter softly as I sift through them. Some of the brushes are made of bright plastic, others natural wood. I opt for a natural one that has a pretty variation to the wood grain. It’s silky smooth to the touch and speaks of woods and wilderness. Definitely the one. It will fit perfect in the loop of my chalk bag and just in time for the competition.
I’ve been watching different competitions online and always see the athletes brush the holds before they begin. It’s supposedly a way to get a feel for what the route will be like, to slough away any extra chalk or grime that could hinder a climber in making a clean ascent. I’ve never thought of myself as a competitor, and while I still have no desire to try and beat Justice or Eleni, I now see myself as an athlete. I am a climber.
I smile at the thought, and it brings a sting of tears to my eyes.
These are the things I love doing, and that’s what I want to write about. I close my eyes, taking a steadying breath as I’m surrounded by hiking packs and black-soled shoes. The smell of rubber and chalk has become so natural, that I can tell—here and now—that the Sadie of today isn’t quite the same as the Sadie from a month or two ago. There’s a newness to this and it’s been hard-won through callouses and sore muscles. By facing uncharted territory and even making new friends. As the rain finally eases outside, I carry the chalk brush to the register and gladly pay the sale price of $9.99. I have to ignore the nagging sense that if I take the magazine job again, I could afford a dozen chalk brushes and even a dozen chalk bags as well. But I don’t need a dozen.
I only need the one. Because it’s just me, and these treasures I have are more than enough.
As I head out to the Jeep, recognize that while I’m a solo individual, there’s also community. This decision with the magazine offer? It’s one I don’t have to wrestle with alone. I mean, I know the decision must be up to me, but sometimes it’s helpful to bring another voice into the equation. Once I climb inside and close the door, I dial my mom. When she answers, I fill her in on what’s been happening.
“So, the magazine wants you back,” she clarifies. Rain patters softly against the windshield. “And they’re offering you a raise.”
I cringe at how moronic my hesitation must sound. “Exactly.”
“But you don’t want to write for them anymore.”
“I know it sounds crazy.”
“Honey, it only sounds like you have a tough decision to make, but I’m proud of you for paying attention to what’s important here.”
“What if I’m making a huge mistake?”
“Do you feel like it’s a mistake?”
Closing my eyes, I see my editor’s disappointed face on our last conference call. “If I’m honest, no.”
“Then I think you’re on the right track.”
“But so many people enjoyed those articles. You said yourself you had shared it with some of the ladies you know.”
“Sadie. . .” Her voice grows soft. “That’s not because you wrote a type of article. It’s because you wrote the article.”
The tension in my chest eases.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t make that clearer sooner. I’m sorry for the ways I’ve caused you doubt or worry. I never want you to feel like you have to live up to certain expectations.” Her soft voice grows even more gentle. “The important thing is that you have to live with your convictions. You have to live with your decision, and I think it’s a tough one.”
“Because?”
“I think you already know the answer.”
I breathe out a slow breath, relieved that she’s confirming what I know in my heart to be true. “Mom, there’s something I’ve been working on and it feels important. It feels more authentic and purposeful than anything I’ve written in a long time. Can I send you the pages?”
“Send them along, sweetie.” I hear that smile in her voice again. “This I gotta read.”