Chapter Text
If I were someone else and I hadn't done the things I've done, I would still be here, and I would still be writing love letters to the universe. They would just look a little different, and I would look a little different. But I hope that, either way, someone would smile upon reading them.
That's the preface to Ash's next work of published fiction, a short story collection titled Love Letters to the Universe. Ash has been working on it for a while—longer than any of his novels took, honestly, due to the rather personal nature of some of the stories. It's easy to write about someone else. It's hard to write about yourself.
Not that this is really writing about himself. Not in a way that anyone will recognize, hopefully. It'll just be a little work of fiction, or several, just like any of his others. Nothing special. Nothing new. Just ... just Aslan Jade Callenreese, better known by his pen name Ash Lynx, writing stories.
He almost wants to scoff at that. Stories. To some people, that's all this is. They're just stories. Just something for them to read about, be entertained by, and move on.
In some ways, he doesn't mind it. Really, it's whatever. If people enjoy his writing, then it doesn't really matter why, right? What matters is that they read something that he wrote, and that they enjoyed it. But it's terrifying to think that they're getting these little glimpses into Ash's soul and getting nothing more than fiction from it. Nothing to relate to—just a story to read and forget about.
Maybe that's all Ash ever has been. Something to consume and forget.
But he's trying not to think that way anymore.
Anyway, Love Letters to the Universe. This is going to be his preface to the book, and the only real indication that anything in it might be more than just a tall tale, another concoction of Ash Lynx's mysterious mind. He's never actually written something this personal before. He's written bits and pieces of characters who're survivors, of course—it was his only way to cope, for a while—but nothing like this, at least not published.
He didn't think he ever would publish something like this. He didn't think he'd ever want to.
He doesn't know if this is good or bad. Is it progress, to finally be willing to talk about things? And if it is progress, is that okay? Are people like Ash allowed to have progress?
And he's trying so, so hard to say people there, and not things.
He wonders if his readers pick up on those little differences that he throws into his writing sometimes. When a character calls themselves that instead of who in a sentence. His agent notices, of course—that's part of Jessica's job, after all—and Ash thinks that after enough times of him switching her corrections back, she realized what he was trying to accomplish. It wasn't a typo—some characters just genuinely think of themselves as an object.
Ash would know.
He still remembers the first time Jessica corrected that specific 'typo' in his writing, back in his first traditionally published novel. She left a comment on the document: Think of it as the difference between 'the woman whom my father married' and 'the woman that my father married.' One is for people, and the other is for objects.
But Ash knows that. He read the Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association for fun, and the Chicago Manual of Style after that. He mostly just lets Jessica edit because half the time he can't be assed to check his own work for consistency, especially for longer projects. He doesn't need it for grammar.
Jessica is almost a bit of a formality at this point, but Ash likes talking to her. He likes the feedback she gives. She's no nonsense, no bullshit, and he appreciates that. He's sick of 'positivity reads' or whatever the fuck, where people endlessly praise his work despite the fact that it doesn't deserve it. Jessica knows by now that if she has nothing bad to say about his work, he'll send it back to her over and over until she does.
There has to be something wrong, he'll say. You're just not telling me what it is. I can take it. Just tell me what's fucked up so I can fix it.
Ash is considered a 'hybrid' writer, meaning that he's both self published and traditionally published. This makes for an interesting situation in which writers on both sides think he's on the opposing side, when in reality there are no sides at all. The whole thing is kind of ridiculous, really—like authors don't get enough shit for not having real jobs without fighting against each other. There's nothing wrong with traditionally published authors for playing the corporate game to try (and usually fail) to win the corporate prizes, and there's nothing wrong with self published authors for calling the corporate game bullshit and avoiding the gatekeeping.
Ash taps his pen against the proof copy of the short story collection, the one the publisher sent him before the book is officially released. He wants to scribble out the preface. Now that it's all there, actually printed on ink and paper, it looks so fucking stupid. No one cares what he has to say. No one ever has, and no one ever will. Why does he bother?
Ash's phone rings.
"What is it, Jess?" he grumbles, hitting speakerphone and wrapping the blanket tighter around himself.
"Get out of your room. Get some light. You're too pale."
"Fuck off," Ash says, a little pissed that she actually knew he was hiding out in his room, as usual. "What do you want?"
"You excited for your new release?" Jess says, voice closer to playful now. "It's gonna be a good one. I can feel it."
Ash shrugs, though he knows she can't see it, and just sighs into the speaker.
"Come on, Ash. You need to live a little."
"What writer isn't an introvert?" Ash counters.
"It's not about introversion, and you know it. It's about writing fucking love letters to the universe when you've never been in love."
"How would you—!?"
"Ash. You can't write love letters to readers you've never met. You need to learn to love yourself, and others, and your writing will be better for it. You need to go out there and experience shit before you can write about it."
"... I've experienced plenty," Ash mumbles.
Jess seems to hesitate, silence over the line for a moment. "I know," she says eventually. "But you deserve to experience good shit too, don't you think?"
No, Ash almost snaps. He sighs. It's not Jessica's fault. He shouldn't take it out on her. She just wants what's best for Ash and his writing. The problem is that Ash doesn't always want what's best for himself. Still ...
"Thanks," Ash says. "I appreciate it."
"Good! I'm glad. In related news, I booked a release party and signing for you at the Bananafish bookstore and coffee shop, so make sure to be there."
"You—what?"
"Bye!"
"Jess—!"
The line goes dead.
Ash groans, slamming his phone down on top of the proof copy. A fucking release party? He doesn't ... doesn't wanna do that shit. No way. Ash isn't much for big or small events like that. He doesn't want to get his hopes up for a big release party and then have no one show up, or have the opposite happen where there's an overwhelming amount of people. There's just no winning here.
He wants to throw this stupid proof copy across the room. He wants to cry and scream like a child, like the child he never really got to be. This is stupid. How is he supposed to keep living like this? Like—anything? How is he supposed to keep pretending that he has anything worth saying? All his stories are basically the fucking same, and eventually people are going to realize that there's no value in them.
That there's no value in him.
Taking a deep breath, Ash leans back in his desk chair. He doesn't know what to do, but what's new about that? When has he ever?
A fucking release party. Whatever.
His phone buzzes again, just Jessica texting him the date and time, with the address of the Bananafish store. Named after the Salinger short story, it seems. At least that's relatively appropriate.
The event is scheduled for the official release day of Love Letters to the Universe, which is a few days from now. So at least Ash has some time to prepare.
Prepare, and dread.
He's going to try to go in with absolutely no expectations. Can't be disappointed if you don't expect anything. Whatever's going to happen, Ash is just going to ... let it happen.
He's very familiar with that method of coping.
Fuck.
Well, for now, Ash is just going to keep writing. Nothing else to do but keep going, right? Same as it's always been ...
Yeah. Sometimes all you can do is write the next word, and then the next after that. Whole stories are written that way—Ash's too.
So he opens his laptop, and he writes.