Page 6 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Three
OREN
Most people probably think children’s authors have a whimsical routine—maybe a sunlit porch, a cup of herbal tea, birds chirping on the windowsill.
My reality? Fuzzy blue bunny slippers, a bowl of stale popcorn, and a stack of half-finished drafts cluttering my desk like literary corpses.
Still, I make it work. I always do.
I wiggle my toes inside the slippers, then glance down at the socks: lavender, sprinkled with little cartoon moons. They peek out like shy accomplices. I chose them deliberately this morning for their goofy brightness. Socks and slippers push me softly into the headspace where writing feels easy. Where I can laugh at my silliness and let the stories come out the way they’re meant to.
The desk itself is a battlefield of contradictions. On one side: sticky notes, revision schedules, and a stiff hardcover thesaurus with too many bent corners. On the other: a rainbow of gel pens, a squishy dinosaur stress toy, and a snow globe shaped like a rubber duck that quacks when you shake it. I keep it there for ‘inspiration,’ though honestly, it just makes me smile.
I tell myself these are tools for the job. When you’re writing about adventurous otters and frog princes and brave little sockpuppets, it helps to have your own menagerie of nonsense within reach. But I know the truth: these things make me feel safe and small. They remind me I’m allowed to play while the rest of the world grinds itself to dust.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I try to focus on the manuscript due in two weeks—a story about a prickly hedgehog who learns the value of sharing snacks. But my brain drifts, as it always does, to the other stories. The ones I don’t tell anyone about. The bedtime tales I scribble in secret, where the socks aren’t just silly patterns but props in a scene that leave me flushed and squirming.
I shake my head, tug my sleeves down over my hands, and mutter, “Not today.”
But the notebook shoved under the edge of my desk calendar whispers otherwise.
I tap out three clumsy paragraphs about Molly the Hedgehog and her snack-hoarding habit, then stop. Reread. Delete. It’s not bad, exactly, but it feels flat.
My gaze drifts again to the colorful notebook of stories I’d never, ever show an editor. The last entry is a messy scrawl about drinking water before bed. A boy who drips and makes a mess, and his Daddy, who pats his lap dry.
It’s the kind of scene that makes my chest ache with a need I can’t put into words, so I pour it onto paper instead. Heat rises in my cheeks, even though I’m alone. I snap the notebook shut and shove it back into hiding.Work first, fantasies later.
My phone buzzes on the desk, rescuing me from myself. I swipe it open to read a new message from Keane.
Keane: Morning, kiddo. Drink a full glass of water before you get too lost in your work.
I glance at the corner of my journal and snort. “Busted.”
But I get up anyway, padding to the kitchen in my bunny slippers and filling a glass with cold tap water. I gulp half of it before I even realize I’m obeying. Because when Keane tells me to do something, it never feels like a chore. It feels as though I’m being cared for.
By the time I’m back at my desk, there’s another message waiting.
Keane: What socks today?
I glance down at my lavender moons. My stomach flutters.
Purple with moons. They match my slippers.
Keane: Cute. That’s a good boy.
Two words.Good boy.And just like that, the story about Molly and her snack stash can wait. My heart is racing, and the edges of my little desk world suddenly feel bigger, brighter, alive.
Maybe I don’t want to keep all my stories secret forever. Maybe there’s time to sneak back to my bedroom and reread my last dirty story while I rub one out. Maybe?—
Ping.
An email notification barges onto my toolbar, smug as hell. I don’t even need to open it to know. My editor. Of course.
Sure enough, the subject line screams:“Friendly Reminder to Hurry the Fuck Up:)”
I groan, forehead thunking against the desk. There goes my squirt break. There goes the journal. The real world is calling, and it wants me in ‘Grown-Up-With-a-Job-Oren’ mode.
