cliffhanger
“Another hot date,” Agatha muttered sarcastically as she booted up her computer and waited for her coffee to be done. Once it had turned on, she grabbed her coffee and took a deep breath before heading to her cluttered desk. She grabbed Señor Scratchy and petted the soft rabbit, setting her coffee on the desk with her other arm. “Ready, buddy? We’re going to get work done.” She kissed him on the head and set him back in his cage, rolling her shoulders back as she navigated to her recent files.
Pulling up the manuscript, she quickly read over her last chapter and began writing the rest of the draft. She typed for hours, words quickly filling the empty pages of her document. She never understood how quickly her mind worked when it came to writing, the storyline flowing like a gentle stream. Everything just seemed to fall into place. Agatha knew it was abnormal; she’d seen so many interviews where her favorite authors mentioned it took them anywhere from 8 to 108 drafts to develop a good manuscript. Agatha, however, simply put her ideas on paper, edited word choice, of course, and released it. Not once did she second-guess her plot or character choices. She’d been nervous about releasing her work at first, but eventually, she’d started to accept it as her gift, her skill, and her strength. All in one go, she’d write full sections of Darkhold books, each with 10-25 chapters.
Not a single day went by when she didn’t think about writing. Whether it was a simple poem or a chapter for her series, she was always crafting meticulous sentences in her head. New scenery? There’s a poem for that in her journal somewhere. New friend? Looks like a new chapter. Trauma? Looks like a good character backstory.
As she finished up her last chapter, Agatha’s eyes scanned over the last few pages again, eyes squinting through her cat-eyed glasses. She read it to herself out loud, testing the way the words sounded strung together.
“The stolen file held more than enough proof to bring the Salem Seven down. Though the hacker's price was high, Agnes knew that it would be worth its weight in gold.” She whispered, attempting to bring the scene to life.
***
“Half now, half on delivery.” Agnes shut the briefcase and crossed a leg over the other, leaning back in her chair. “As discussed.”
The woman handed her an old burner. “This phone is the key to the file. Go to London. Once you’ve arrived, you’ll receive a call on that phone from my employer, the hacker you spoke with.”
Agnes smirked, satisfied, before making her way back inside and downstairs.
***
“Finally in reach of the silver bullet that would destroy the Salem Seven once and for all.” Agatha sighed, sipping the glass of wine she had poured herself earlier. She threw her head back and stared at the ceiling for a few moments, centering her thoughts. She turned to Señor Scratchy and gently stroked his fur. “Book 5 done. Cheers, Scratchy.” She raised her wine in a mock toast before downing the rest swiftly.
***
Agatha was enjoying her toast the next morning when her phone rang. She glanced at the Caller ID, jaw clenching. “Morning, Mother.” She sighed.
“Good morning, Agatha.” Evanora Harkness’s unmistakable voice blessed the other end of the line.
“Did you see the email I sent you last night?”
“Oh, I read it.”
“Overnight? The whole thing?” Agatha knew her mother was dedicated to pointing out every little flaw she had, but staying up to criticize her manuscript? That was a new low.
“Oh, I’m your mother. Of course I did.” Agatha tried not to roll her eyes at the line that had been reused countless times over the last five years.
“How was it?” Agatha feigned interest in her mother’s commentary.
“Couldn’t put it down.”
“Oh?”
“Every other line needs a rework, Agatha.”
Agatha hit the mute button as fast as possible and screamed, pounding the table with her fist. She blew out a frustrated breath, taking a second to calm herself down before unmuting and responding. “Alright.”
“I know you don’t usually take my advice anyway, dear, but I truly could not sit through that. It was so terrible I couldn’t go to sleep.”
Agatha had learned a while back not to take her mother’s words to heart, but her input was still critical. She knew she shouldn’t rewrite the book like her mother had suggested, but she still knew to improve the word choice and order in a few spots.
Her mother somehow always tended to make her feel stupid and insecure about almost everything: her clothing style, routine, way of living, writing, relationship status—the list went on and on.
However, Evanora Harkness did have a very good eye when it came to writing, so her feedback was no less than indispensable to Agatha.
“Agatha? Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, mother.”
“What are your plans with the book now?”
“I’ll send it out to publishing.”
“Did you not hear what I just said a few moments ago?” Evanora’s voice had a sudden edge to it.
“What?”
“The ending. I’m reading this…this thing, and I get to the end, anticipating the conclusion, and there is none. Agnes gets the file, ready to defeat the enemy, and then it…stops?”
“It’s called a cliffhanger, mother.” Agatha groaned, slamming her head against the table.
“Agatha, it’s called a cop-out. Who am I kidding? You weren’t exactly capable of this in the first place. Your writing is slightly above average; remember that, and the only reason you’re this far is due to my connections and goodwill.” Agatha side-eyed the phone, knowing that everything her mother was currently spitting out was absolute, utter bullshit. Her talent had gotten her to this position, not her mother’s connections, goddamnit. She’d proved it multiple times, every book of hers becoming a bestseller. There were times when her insecurity transformed into total confusion, because what did her mother mean by slightly above average? She knew she could improve as an author, but a small part of her was confident in her writing. She was Agatha Harkness, bestselling author of the Darkhold series. She could fucking do this.
“I know I have room to improve, Mother, but I also know I need to have at least a little bit of extraordinary talent in this field to get this far.”
“You would have gotten nowhere without me. My input on your drafts, things you’ve changed because of my advice, that’s the reason you’re so popular today.”
Agatha took a deep breath, not wanting to argue on this any longer. She’d realized at one point that arguing was pointless and that she just had to stop doubting her abilities before she spiraled downwards like last time.
“I’m flying in on Friday to fix your… your creation.” Agatha could hear the disgust in her voice. Calm the fuck down; it’s a bunch of words, she thought.
“Okay,” Agatha knew refusing would get her nowhere.
Her mother hung up on her shortly after. She needed to prove to her mother that she was better than this. She could write another chapter. She could finish the story. She would write the whole chapter, impress her mother, and publish the manuscript with her approval. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t happening, but it was worth a try. (Right?) Agatha groaned for what felt like the hundredth time that day and looked at Señor Scratchy. “Did you hear that, buddy? One more chapter.”
***
Agatha put her head in her hands, exhausted. She’d tried everything, from writing Agnes making out with the spy to writing her going to sleep. Nothing worked.
Every scene, every story path, every sentence felt so off, it was like someone else had written them. It felt like some 3rd grader had tried to mimic Agatha’s writing style. It didn’t feel like her.
When she started wondering if someone had possessed her and written those last three paragraphs, she deleted them and decided to take a break. She got up and stretched her legs, grabbing a beer from the kitchen. She checked the time—5 pm—which was a socially acceptable time to be drinking to her. (Not like the time of day has stopped her from drinking before.) She fed Señor Scratchy, did a few stretches, and went right back to work at her desk.
But no matter how much she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t deny that she was completely burned out.
For the first time in her life, Agatha Harkness felt like she couldn’t write a chapter. Like she didn’t know what came next, like she wasn’t able to finish this story.
She just groaned and let her hurting head fall on her keyboard.