The Great Between

Pen's Project

'Have you found a story?' Pen asks as we pack books and puzzles. She's sitting on cushions in the middle of the shop, surrounded by envelopes and papers and books as I restock the shelves. The door is open to let in the noise and smell of the rain as the downpour releases dusty petrichor into the afternoon air. (Petrichor, the smell of rain on dust, was defined by the CSIRO – further proof that scientists are artists in lab coats.)

'I haven't,' I say. 'I tried.'

'Did you try or did you just stare at your computer, hoping something would happen?'

'There's no need for that kind of personal attack, Pen.'

'Writers,' she sighs, rolling her eyes. She tears a length of tape off the roll with her teeth and I cringe.

'What?' she says, tape stuck to her lip. 'It gets the job done.'

It's quiet for a moment, except for the sound of rain and the soft scratching of Pen scribbling addresses on boxes of books.

'What about Leo?' she asks.

'What about him?'

'Everything. Tell me about you and him. No, wait.' she clicks her fingers at me. 'You should write about him. There you go, I found you a story. Write yourself a love story.'

I roll my eyes and disappear between the shelves, hoping she'll drop the subject. She huffs and sits back, looking up at the Polaroids stuck next to the door, years' worth of author events, book launches, and moments displayed behind the till. There are a few photos of me up there too. Pen used to take them when I wasn't looking, complaining that I always hid for photos. There is a little line of photos of Pen and Zac and me, smiling in front of the photo album wall on the shop's birthday every year.

'One day,' Pen says, and I know from her tone that this will be another attempt to guilt-trip me into writing. 'One day, there will be a photo on that wall from your debut book launch and I'll be smiling like a grandmother at their grandkid's graduation.'

'I have been trying to write,' I tell her. 'It's just that my trying hasn't been that successful yet.'

Pen pats the cushion beside her and I sit. She leans forward and poses like a psychologist pondering something difficult. 'And what's been stopping you?'

Living in a pandemic has stopped me. It feels stupid to worry about my little world when there is such horrific heartbreak happening overseas and huge changes violently upending normality. I shouldn't be struggling; all I'm doing is sitting at home with Mum and Gracie as Dad works in the study instead of in the city. I've just been watching the endless news cycle, avoiding my holiday homework, and missing my friends. Who am I to worry about writing in a time like this? Art is not the priority right now, and my writing definitely is not.

I fiddle with the fringe of my cushion. 'It feels stupid to put time and effort into writing when people are dying horrible deaths. My stories don't matter while stuff like that is happening.'

'You're young,' Pen says with a dismissive wave of her hand. 'Everything is either futile or world-shatteringly important when you're young. You need to grow some nuance.'

She takes a few sips of tea and furrows her brow. 'Besides, you can't think like that. Nothing can be all or nothing, important or futile.'

'It feels like that, though. It feels like nothing I'm doing is important.'

'Maybe it's not, but that's no reason to stop. There have always been people dying horrible deaths and suffering from war, or cancer, or self-hatred. It's never stopped you making stuff before. It's never stopped you writing.'