Submittable
4:47 AM. The word count sits at 1,143.
Brevity’s guidelines demand 750—less if possible.
I scroll to the fitting room. She steps out. The three-way mirror throws her bitten-lipped smile in every direction. She turns right. Turns left. Her hands smooth the fabric.
“What do you think?” she says.
My eyes take her in.
My mouth says, “Maybe.”
Monster. I delete the line about her smile.
The count drops to 1,133.
The cursor blinks.
The margin holds the comment the Brevity editor offered six months ago:
This feels like it’s about shame. But I’m not feeling the shame. I’m being told about it.
I highlight the paragraph where I explain what I didn’t understand at the time. What I should have seen. How stupid I was.
Four hundred and twelve words of apology too late to matter.
I highlight the block.
Delete.
The word count drops to 725.
Now the piece ends at the curb. She’s out of the car before it comes to a stop. I put it in park, and watch her walk away. Just sit there, hands at 10 and 2. No resolution. No lesson. Just the space she leaves behind.
I close the doc.
Open it again at 4:53.
The ending stares back at me. Lifeless.
I add a line: That was forty-three years ago.
Then another: I still see her in that mirror.
The count climbs to 737.
I read it back. Delete both lines. Close the doc again.
At 5:02, I open a blank document. Title it Submittable.
The cursor blinks.
I type: The document opens at 4:47 AM.
Highlight it. Delete.
Type: She walked away, and I let her.
Delete it.
The page holds a blinking cursor for nine minutes.
If I write about writing about her, I get to hold her in that moment longer than she ever agreed to. Get to decide where she stands, how she turns, when she smiles. When she leaves.
If I publish this, I’m using her again. Exploiting the same moment. Making it smaller. Making her smaller.
Once in the mall.
Again on the page.
I close the tab.
At 5:19, I open the confession again.
The count still 737.
I scroll to the part where I try to make her into something she isn’t.
The line reads: I told her to try on whatever she wanted.
I change it to: I told her to pick something.
Then, I told her to pick something. My treat.
I hover over it.
I scroll back to the editor’s comment: I’m not feeling the shame.
I close the document.
At 5:48, I open Submittable again.
The blank page is still blank.
At 6:02, I have 180 words about trimming a confession to fit a market.
At 6:09, I have 340 words about the economics of attention, permission, and space.
At 6:14, I stop.
The confession is still open in another tab. 737 words, while this piece, Submittable, is 520 words of hiding. Talking about the work instead of doing it. Writing about shame instead of sitting in it. Owning it.
I highlight all 520 words.
My finger hovers over the delete key.
At 6:22, Keylea’s alarm goes off. The pipes course. The shower hisses. The fan hums.
I close both documents.
Open the confession one more time.
737 words. 3,841 characters.
I scroll to the end. To the curb. To her halfway up the walk. To my hands at 10 and 2.
I add one line: I tried calling her for days after.
The count ticks up. 744.
I read it aloud. My throat tightens around the words.
Delete the line.
At 7:31, Keylea comes into the kitchen, pulling on her coat. Asks if I’m okay.
I say yeah.
She kisses the top of my head.
“I’ll be home by six.”
The door clicks shut.
I open the laptop.
My confession lies buried beneath 737 words.
Submittable is me heaping another 653 words worth of soil over top of it.
Outside, the garbage truck roars up the street. The neighbor’s Rottweiler goes after it.
At 7:51, I power off the laptop.
The screen goes black.
In the reflection, a man sits at a kitchen table, staring at a machine that holds a confession too weak to submit and the draft he’s hiding behind.
By 7:56, the neighbor’s Rottweiler has given up.
The trash truck groans on.
My reflection doesn’t move.