The First Chapter

My arm has gone numb from hours of writing. My back hurts from being hunched over this desk. I’ve got a headache from focusing on my task for far too long. But I can’t give up yet.

On the desk in front of me is a messy pile of drawings, story ideas, outlines for possible plots, and unfinished first chapters. I have created exhaustive lists of my characters’ physical traits, as well as their interests, hopes, and activities. I have drawn each character in various situations, my mind set on finding the perfect chain of events to use in my story.

It’s a project I’ve been working on for a few years. I’ve changed the plot at least five times. People in my family like to make fun of me at times because of this. They say I’m wasting time and energy on something I’ll never finish. Still, I believe that I will someday be able to complete this novel, with or without their approval.

I want to make it as good as it can possibly be. This is difficult when working on paper, but this pile of ideas is a good place to start. With this in mind, I concentrate on developing a new outline on a blank sheet of paper. I look back at my trait lists for some sort of inspiration. One character likes to look up at the night sky. Should I use this to begin the first chapter? I ask myself. What might it symbolize at this point in the story? I consider the character’s social life, referring back to the lists. Does he feel alienated or lonely? Why does he feel this way? Does he have any friends? What about his relationships with his family?

As I consider these questions, I gradually develop an outline of a potential first chapter. From here, I might choose to either use or abandon the story I see unfolding from this possible exposition. I read the outline a few times and decide that this plot does not satisfy me. It’s too isolated from the conflict I wish to portray. I cross it out and begin a new list.

A thought occurs to me. What if, instead of using the characters’ interests to begin the story, I start the first chapter with something a character does not like? That might allow me to create a contrast between the harsh reality the character faces and the ideal life they try to have. Nidhin, you genius, I tell myself.

I list a bunch of things my characters hate to do. Sweat covers my forehead as I spend the next few minutes on this task. Before I realize it, I have filled a whole page with my characters’ dislikes. However, after reading them over, I realize that none of them can be used to create a satisfactory first chapter.

My gaze shifts down to my chest, where a potato-shaped sweat patch has formed on my orange T-shirt. I study it for a minute or so, trying to find inspiration. All I can come up with is the phrase potato head. A phrase which, unfortunately, fits how I feel now.

I sit back in my chair. A deep hole opens in my chest. The words of my family flood my skull.

Will I ever be able to finish this novel? I start to tense up. Will this really work? Or am I doomed to never complete it? These questions-questions I have long believed I’d never have to ask myself about this project-made my chest ache and my throat tighten. Am I really such a bad writer that I can’t even come up with a first chapter? Am I just destined to fail at this?

It hurts to feel like I have not made enough progress. It hurts to feel like I have not done nearly enough in the past few years. If I can’t write a first chapter, what’s the point of everything I´ve done to improve myself over the years? What did I grow up for?

I shut my eyes tight. I don’t want to see the pile. I don’t want to see my trait lists. I don’t want to see anything that reminds me of the fact that I can’t write a first chapter.

“Nidhin… Hey, come on… Wake up…”

I slowly open my eyes. A field of flowers extends in all directions around me. The sky is clear, the sun shining brightly above me.

“You all right?”

Turning to my right, I see the speaker: a slender girl with reddish-brown hair, dressed in a red blouse, a denim jacket, and a pair of denim shorts. The smile on her childlike face radiates her confidence, her enthusiasm.

“Astra?” My head is spinning. “What… where are we… why are you… how…”

She breaks into a laugh. The sweetness of this laugh is like a song tugging at my heartstrings. She places her left hand on my arm.

“Oh, come on, Nidhin, what did you expect?” Her voice takes on a lighthearted, playful tone. “Did you forget what happened the last time you dozed off after writing?”

I let out a sigh-she’s right. Two months ago, I was so frustrated with a bad first chapter that I had to take a nap. The next thing I knew, I was in this very field of flowers. And right in front of me was Astra herself. She was the one character I could never replace or remove from the novel. It was her infectious passion that had motivated me for years to tell her story. But now, looking at her, I only feel guilty for forgetting her appearance in my dream.

The fact that she and I are back here becomes overwhelming. I feel my ribcage and throat tighten. Tears spill down my face, falling on the flowers around me. It hurts to look at her knowing I’ve failed her for real this time.

I see Astra’s face twist into an expression of terror. It dawns on me that she has never seen me like this.

“It’s all right,” she whispers, though I can tell she’s holding back a sob. “It’s all right.”

She is afraid, afraid I’ve given up already. She knows why I want to write this novel-the struggles I’ve faced throughout my childhood that have led me to this project. She had spoken to me every night before I fell asleep, reassuring me I would succeed in spite of every argument by my family that my time would be better spent on more “practical” pursuits. She knows just how vulnerable I am; she fears I might accept defeat.

“Nidhin…” She wants to help, to encourage me as she has done time and time again. But she knows what I’m afraid of as well. “It’s okay… you haven’t failed… please listen to me…” She has become desperate. “Hey, look at me… Nidhin, please…”

I turn away from her-how can I possibly look her in the eye if I can’t write a first chapter?

“I… I’m sorry, Astra.” My throat is hoarse. “I can’t… I can’t…”

She wraps her right arm around me. I bury my face in her chest, letting her warmth envelop me. Her chin rests on my head. We sit there for a while, not speaking, not moving.

Then Astra begins to sing softly, the lightness of her voice drawing my attention through the lyrics I know all too well:

“You can’t feel the heat until you hold your hand over the flame…” She taps my chest to the beat of the song. “You have to cross the line just to remember where it lays…”

I instantly recognize the song “Satellite” by Rise Against. My heart aches at the sound of the lyrics in Astra’s voice. It is, after all, the song that bound us together years ago. It’s the song that carried me through the worst years of my life, when I was little more than a body in a hospital bed. It’s the song that, in many ways, inspired me to create the one character I could never replace. It’s the song that filled me with hope even at the darkest of times. It’s the song that made me believe there would always be someone in my life like the little girl who wiped away my tears when I broke down in front of her, knowing I would eventually be strong again.

The singing, coupled with her tapping on my chest, puts me at ease. Slowly, gently, I pull my face away from her chest.

“Astra…” My throat still aches, but I need to speak, to understand why she’s still here. “Why are you… trying… to help me?”

She places her right hand on my cheek. Her left hand rests on my lap.

“Remember the article you read a few years ago?” she asks softly. “The one your doctor wrote?”

I nod. It’s something I can’t forget-the article my oncologist had published in a medical journal on the use of internal radiation as a treatment for brain cancers. As one of his patients, I was a part of his study; in fact, I was a rather unusual case among those patients.

“‘One of the six patients with severe brain cancers,’” Astra says, reciting the article’s acknowledgement of my survival. She pinches my cheek. “One survivor. One really tough survivor.”

I’m not too sure this is true-after all, it was my doctors who’d treated the cancer and kept me alive-but after all those years, the memory of that little girl wiping my cheeks has stayed with me. What if I was strong back then, strong like that little girl knew I would be?

I see a wide grin on Astra’s face. She pinches my cheek again.

“Twelve years,” she chuckles. “Twelve years since you left the hospital. Look at you now. You’re way different from the helpless kid you were back then!” She giggles. “I mean, look at what you’ve become! A survivor, a student, a great public speaker… I mean, you’ve accomplished so much in just twelve years!”

“Well… yeah,” I manage to say, “but how is that-”

“Listen.” She lets her right hand drop to my shoulder. “I get that you think I’m about to launch into an hour-long speech or something, but I… I just find that really special. I mean, you survived, Nidhin! You have the rest of your life ahead of you! Now you have to decide what to do with it. You can spend it just getting by and waiting for the end, or you can put everything you’ve got into what you want to do before the end comes.” She pats my shoulder. “You’ve made it this far, Nidhin. You’ve always been way too determined to give up on yourself. That is perhaps the most beautiful thing anyone can find in this life.”

I feel my heart about to burst. It was one thing for me to believe that there would always be someone to stand by me; it’s another to know once and for all that someone, even a character I made up, wants to stand by me now.

“The world needs to see how special you are,” she says. “And you need to show the world what you’ve become. I know you can do it, Nidhin. All that’s left is for you to put it on paper.” She cups my face in her hands. “I promise, one day, years from now, people will remember you.”

She grins at me. And in this moment, seeing her utter resolve despite our uncertain future, I burst into tears again. She pulls me close, my head on her shoulder.

It is here that I understand exactly why I can’t replace her. It is here that I remember that even when I felt I was destined to fail, even when I felt like I was beyond repair, she was always with me. She is the voice of my hope, the one who has kept me alive all these years as I grew into the incredible person I am now. I now understand what she is saying to me. The world, I realize, needs to see how special I am to her; that is how I must tell her story. That is how I must show the world what she means to me.

I feel her determination flowing through the air and into my nostrils. It fills my lungs and allows me to breathe again. So what if I don’t have a first chapter yet? I ask myself. Is that really such a bad thing? I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. I have some great ideas. I have the skills to write. And I have Astra. For now, that is enough for me to try again.

I pull myself away from her as she uses a hand to wipe my cheeks.

“Now get back in there,” she tells me. “Let’s do this.”

I wake with a start. The dream is over; I am back in my room, behind the desk and its messy pile. My T-shirt still has a potato-shaped sweat patch. Only now, the words of the character I can’t replace have filled my skull. They echo in my head, reminding me of how much I’ve grown over the years-and of what I still have to do.

I find a blank sheet of paper and start a new outline. This time, however, I don’t stop after a few minutes. This time, I think I have a really good idea. I think it might even be a great first chapter. But for now, I let Astra’s words wash over me as I build it up.

After about half an hour, I have something that might work. An outline I can work with to write a new first chapter. Maybe the first chapter.