My Next Great American Novel

Knowing you was like sticking my nose into a new book.

I fell in love and fell apart. I was convinced when I turned the last page that my life would never be the same without you. The entire world remained unchanged, unmoved by you, but mine was. I had experienced a new world, just the two of us. You dragged me through your conflict and romanced me with your rising action. My heart was shaken by your climax and then I found myself tumbling through your falling action and every fight we had. Your resolution concluded everything but the storm in my heart, but I had to turn the page and let you go.

You managed to draw me in, make a connection with my heart, and reminded me that there was more to my insignificant life. I was profoundly moved by your words. Like every great novel, you entranced me and changed my perception of the world.

But every book has a last word on the final page, an empty space to signify the end. I hung on to every last word and was let down by an abrupt conclusion, with no sort of epilogue to give me the closure I greatly needed.

I was forced to peel my eyes from your pages and stumble back into the real world. Like every book I’ve ever loved, I placed you on my shelf with a vow to keep you forever. It was too soon to revisit you, so I put my nose in another book. You sat there, waiting patiently for me, as I raced through tome after tome.

They had good story-lines and likable characters, but they weren’t you.

Our relationship was an unforgettable adventure. Each page let me explore the world inside of myself, a world that I would have never discovered without you. These books took me to new places, but the exigency couldn’t compare.

These books were just words when you were substance, decorated with a language I didn’t know could be so wonderful, tucked between two beautifully designed covers.

I chased language through chapter after chapter, looking for whatever it was in you that these others didn’t have. Real life continued on outside of your world and when it became too much, I resolved to escape back to you. Your pages were comforting.

I pulled you off my shelf, where you had been waiting so patiently. When I opened you up again, that familiar scent was intoxicating. The nostalgia alone brought me back to the world I had once loved. I missed being able to feel a rush of adrenaline when I was just curled up with you. I needed to stay up all night with you, so enveloped by adventure that sleep didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was me and your words.

Those first words were like meeting an old friend over coffee.

I settled in, tucked into how cozy it was to remember you.

This time, it wasn’t an adventure. All of the new places, the new worlds that had been mysterious and wonderful to me were now sadly familiar. You were no longer exciting to me. You ceased to captivated me enough to feel like I needed to read one more chapter until I reached the end.

I knew the plot before it began to unfold and reading you began to feel like driving home on autopilot. You had brought an important truth into my life, a thrilling tale of love and loss, but rereading you did nothing novel to my heart.

I had been so convinced that if I put you on a shelf and went back to reality, returning to you would be a welcome return to a world that I had fallen in love with. Your words would remain unchanged, trapped between your closed covers, and revisiting them would be like falling in love all over again.

But I knew your characters and I knew their faults.

I didn’t have the patience to see them make the same mistakes.

This time, I didn’t need an epilogue. My heart was resolved before the climax and when your words finally ran out, I was grateful, ready to love you from afar, perched between the books I had fallen in love with as a child and outgrown.

You were my Next Great American Novel but you couldn’t stand the test of time.

When I first met you, I was able to open my heart and peer inside, watching it beat with every sentence. Rereading you warmed my heart, but it didn’t race anymore.

For now, the book of you can remain tucked into the bookshelf in my chest, where the words you spoke into my soul remain, and wait until my fingers open your cover to renew the beginning.