I am quite the procrastinator, aren’t I?
It’s not that I have not wanted to post, I am just kind of having a hard time figuring out the blog thing. What should I post without it sounding like a seventh grader’s diary?
So, I made a decision.
This blog is supposed to be about writing, and write I do (did, will do, have done and all other verb tenses. If you would like the Spanish translation, email me). Therefore, I present the prologue to my first novel Identified: The Maya Price Story.
If you want to know what comes next, you will have to read it when it is published (Wink, wink).
My name is Maya Price. There it is, my name. Two syllables, then one. What does it mean really? Do those three sounds tell you who I am? What I’ve done? Where I’ve been? My story is not so unlike yours, but in many ways it is. It is a love story, a tragedy, a triumph. It has suspense and mystery. In my story there is life, but there is also death.
To understand my story, you have to know me. It’s not that I want you to know me or even that I don’t want to know you. I just need you to understand. Please don’t try to delve into the depths of my psyche and attempt to analyze every action that has led me down this road, just try to be aware of the factors that brought me here.
When I was seven, my parents decided that I needed to see a therapist. I understand. I mean, I wasn’t talking to anyone except my sister.
My therapist’s name was Dr. Thornbird. She wore a black suit, black kitten heels and had black, short-cropped hair. I shrank away from her as she came to sit next to me on the couch. “Is there anything you would like to talk to me about, Maya?” she asked in a calm, emotionless voice. What is a Thornbird? I thought, but did not voice my question out loud. We sat in silence for ten minutes, her scrutinizing my face and I scrutinizing her black pearl earrings. Finally, she stood up and walked to her mahogany desk. From inside its many drawers, she pulled out a black moleskin notebook and a brilliant blue ink pen. She walked back to me and stared resignedly before handing me both.
“Why don’t you write it down.”
It was a statement, not a question.
Maybe it was the grown-up looking notebook that convinced me, or maybe the pen, so brilliantly blue and so different from those we used in school, but I did write it down. I slowly took the pen and journal from her and wrote one sentence. I don’t remember anything. I looked back at Dr. Thornbird hesitantly, waiting, and she nodded her approval.
From that day, I wrote everything down. There are hundreds of black moleskin notebooks lining the bookshelves in my bedroom. No one has read them.
But recent events have called for me to provide a record of what has happened in a new set of notebooks. Explanations need to be made, apologies need to be written, forgiveness requested.
I may not make it through this alive.
To those of you who belong in both my worlds, this is my request: tell my story. Not so that I will be remembered, but so that you learn from my journey. Change my name if you must, but advise anyone who will listen. The events that have affected us so profoundly need not reoccur.
To you, the one that I love: Do not wait for me in the dark corners of your room, hoping that I will stretch out my hand and take you with me. I ask you this favor until it is our time. Our time will come and on that day, when you have finally stopped looking for me over your shoulder, I will come. Until then, I will forever wait for you.
To those of you who don’t know me, I am Maya Price. This is my story.