The Untitled Olivia Hawkins Project
Chapter 1
I haven’t been scared to share any of my writing in a long time.
I write over 100 times a year on Substack. I write all day at work. I’m no Belle Burden, but I feel as though this is something I’ve gotten a handle on in terms of my ability to do.
Some of you may have heard me discuss the book I’ve been wanting to write. I’m going to Copenhagen by myself in almost exactly a month from today to get it done. Why do I think I’m interesting enough to write a book? Maybe because my therapist conceded in a session recently that “the last few years have been a little crazy” for me. Maybe it’s because I was overly-loved as a child. Jury’s out.
This is not a memoir. It is fiction, but a lot of these things are based on my experiences since moving to Manhattan in 2022. I’ve never journaled, but working on this project makes me wish I did. I was in such a bizarre headspace for so long, learning so much about myself in these four years that followed college, which followed high school, which followed the rest of my life. It’s almost difficult to look back with the vision I have now, the headspace I’m in that’s much calmer, much more confident. Maybe it’s the frontal lobe.
The character is named Olivia because it makes it easier for me to write based on my lived experience. This will be confusing for some that begin to picture myself as her. That’s a burden that I am willing to take on.
I had the idea of sharing these preliminary chapters on Substack with my exclusive group of insiders to get feedback, see what works and what doesn’t, or if this is even something worth reading at all. I feel like a toddler jumping off of a high dive. The following is a chapter I wrote intended to be the first. I hope you like it.
Olivia stared at the skyline of the East Side of Manhattan that looked back at her. She wondered where her mom was, where Emily was, where Vincent was on that tiny island, separated from her by a vat of garbage water people were calling the Hudson River.
She looked down at her phone to see three texts from Miriam. While there was no established lunch break policy at Miriam’s office, she could usually get away for thirty minutes or so. She was pushing the hour mark at that point, but who cared. She certainly didn’t, anymore. Instead of responding, Olivia turned to lean down and extend her legs straight against the bench, back pressed firmly into the plastic that pitifully larps as wood.
The Bushwick Inlet Park hadn’t been there when she first started working for Miriam, so she could trust that the bench was clean enough for her to lay on, just for that moment. She dropped her phone on the dirt beneath her, folded her hands on her stomach, and let the tears roll out of the corner of her eyes and down her cheek. She could hear the drop hit the plastic next to her ear lobe. It was low tide which wasn’t a savory scent in New York City, but she deserved to feel the misery of rotting eggs stinging her nostrils. She deserved everything bad happening to her, it seemed. If only she knew why.
