The Passenger, Daniel Hurst [ereader android .TXT] 📗

in the aisles most of the way home. It will take an hour to get to Brighton from here, and that’s a long time to be on your feet and clinging on to a handrail. It’s much more comfortable to be seated if you can. But there are too many people here for everybody to get a seat, at least immediately. I guess it’s just like anything else in life. Some will be lucky, and some will not. But I don’t have to worry about that. I’ve been doing this for so long that luck doesn’t even come into it.

I’ll enter the fifth carriage efficiently when the train arrives, and I will rush to the set of two opposing seats with the table about halfway down. There, I will slide quickly into the forward-facing seat by the window before taking my laptop out of my bag and setting it up while the rest of the commuters rush around me for their own spots. I take that particular seat because it allows me to actually do something productive on my journey home.

By the time the train is leaving London, I will be in full flow.

While most people on this service will pass the time playing games on their phone, reading a newspaper or sleeping, I will get to work, typing several hundred more words of the book that I have been writing while I have been travelling up and down this line for the last three years. I need that table seat because I need to be able to get my laptop out and write. Otherwise, I won’t be able to work, and if I can’t work, I can’t change my life. The words I type aren’t just a way for me to pass the time on a boring commute. They are the way I will escape this boring commute forever.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but it has taken me until the age of thirty-seven to get serious about it. That is down to a combination of many things, including but not limited to bad luck, a lack of confidence, and the general unpredictability of life getting in the way. But now, after all this time, I am finally going after what I want, and nothing is going to stop me.

Nothing.

My ears prick up as the station announcer comes over the tannoy to give an update on the delayed service.

‘We are sorry to announce that the 17:35 service to Brighton is delayed by approximately twelve minutes.’

There are a few groans and moans from the people around me as the tannoy clicks off, and I look up at the screen to see that the estimated time of arrival has now moved on to 17:47. Brilliant. Every minute we are stuck here is one minute less we get to enjoy of our evening. But unlike the passengers around me, who are shaking their heads and muttering expletives under their breath, I at least have something to feel fortunate about.

I won’t be standing here next week. I won’t be forced to go through this tedious routine anymore. I won’t have my life dictated to me by a station announcer. That’s because I have handed my notice in at work, and I only have two more days left until I am a free woman.

The rush of exhilaration that accompanies that thought is only tempered slightly by the anxiety that comes with knowing that I won’t have a stable income any longer. But I have to believe in myself, and I am sure I am doing the right thing.

I am positive that I am going to be able to make my dreams come true.

As I stare down at the tracks in front of me, I think about how my life is going to change in the coming days. After Friday, I will no longer be required to come into London and sit at a desk in an office to work for somebody else. Nor will I be forced to endure two hours of train rides every day along this line, a privilege that costs me a considerable chunk of money to experience. That’s because I am going to give my writing my full attention. I have been working hard over the last year, saving every penny I could to give myself this chance, and now it is time to do it.

It’s time to see if all the writing, dreaming and sacrifices have been worth it.

My plan after leaving my job is to finish my book and then try to get it published. With the money I have saved away, I estimate I have at least a year or two to do this before my funds run out. I pray that it is enough time for somebody to pay me for my writing and save me from having to return to this nine-to-five life.

Am I confident? Yes.

Do I believe in myself? I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t.

But am I also afraid that I am making a mistake and will end up penniless?

Hell yeah.

I swallow hard as if to keep that knot of anxiety down in my stomach and remind myself that I am doing the right thing. What other choice do I have? Stay in my job and keep catching this train every day for the rest of my life? The thought of that terrifies me far more than the thought of failing. I know I can do it. I have to stay positive. My writing is good. Somebody will like it. Somebody will buy it.

I won’t end up homeless at the end of it all.

But I know my fears are only made worse because it’s not just me I have to worry about. It’s my daughter too. Louise is seventeen, and she lives with me in our small flat in Brighton. While I have the money to pay the rent now, that might not be the case in the future if my book doesn’t take off. Therefore, it won’t just be me