Hi, I’m Lisa Wilkes.
I’m a 38-year-old flight attendant, licensed social worker, animal rescuer, and
author. My debut romance novel, Flight Path, entered the world in early 2020. My
second book, Mid-Flight, was released on March 31st, 2023.
I’ve always loved
writing books. When I was eight years old, I wrote a book about a rescue cat. I
was hooked!I fell madly in love with the idea of being a published author. I
wrote a full-length novel at age 19, and completed eleven more books by the
time I reached my late twenties.
Reality set in quickly:
getting published was a nightmarish process. It was a hell of a lot harder than
my childhood self had imagined. For a full decade, I struggled to get my books
published. Eventually, I was too disheartened to continue.
So, I took a step back.
I decided to catch my breath and reassess the situation. During the interlude,
I wrote songs. Feverishly.
In my late twenties, I
lived in San Francisco for a few years; this was the perfect place for an
artist. There were open mic nights throughout the city. Every day of the week
offered a new opportunity to share music with a group of
strangers-turned-friends. I grew close to the musicians there. They were all
starry-eyed, creative souls like myself. They were dreamers and visionaries. My
kind of people, for sure.
And what are song
lyrics if not poetry, with a melodic twist? I wrote hundreds of songs. I filled
journals. I bought a digital voice recorder (this was 2012, so I didn’t have
that capability on my phone) to have someplace to store my lyrics.
Then Imoved to Orlando,
then Denver, then Dallas, then Tampa. As I relocated all over the country, it
became increasingly difficult to find open mic nights. I still wrote songs.
However, without a community of musicians celebrating each new piece,I lost
momentum. I began composing poems that weren’t necessarily set to music.
A lot of musicians and
poets focus on romantic love, which I respect. My songs were different, though.
Mainly, they addressed societal issues or personal struggles. I wrote songs
after meeting homeless folks at the bus stop and working with suicidal patients
at the hospital. I wrote a song when a father aggressively shamed his son for
being “too girly” on the plane, embarrassing the poor kid and turning gender
into a weapon to be used against, well, everyone.
As a social worker and
animal rescuer, I had seen so much injustice. Occasionally, I saw messed-up
stuff as a flight attendant, too.
I witnessed the beauty
of humanity, along with the absolute horror our species has unleashed on other
living beings. Sometimes, my only release was through the written word. I
churned out poem after poem from 2016 to 2018. Then I swallowed my pride
and got back to the business of writing books, which had always been my biggest
passion.
I still write poems. I
don’t share them very often, but I’m happy to provide one today. This was
inspired by a severely depressed friend and coworker. I couldn’t imagine that
person’s struggle, but I ached for them. In the end, I realized the best way to
help was simply by showing up.
Excerpt:
Wordlessly, Lexi grabbed her purse and darted for the exit. She needed to see it. She had to know for sure.
The midnight sky was pierced by jagged red veins. A thousand burgundy fingers tore through the stratosphere like lightning etched in the wrong color. Puffs of smoke dotted the horizon, mushroom clouds rising toward the ominous red ether. From the descriptions and images in Lexi’s VirtuAlarms, it appeared Santa Fe had gotten off easy. Other cities looked like they’d been struck by an atomic bomb.
The world was blazing. The sky was breaking apart in pieces.
AutoScan—Jorge Rodrigues, I didn’t see your texts ‘til just now. They’re grounding all planes immediately? Scary stuff. Wish I was there with you. Where’s your plane landing?
With a rapid-fire double blink, Lexi sent the message.
Jorge’s response flitted across Lexi’s cornea. His words felt frantic. Can’t get down. Capitol Hill is burning. Dense population, nowhere to land. 80 miles from Dulles Airport. I don’t think we’ll make it.
Lexi read the last sentence and crumbled. She fell to her knees on the hot New Mexico concrete, sirens blaring in the distance and meteors crashing to the ground with a fiery scarlet vengeance.
“No,” she begged the universe. “Please, no.”
Her vision blurred. Lexi ached to rip her skin off her body, inch by inch, melting into a heap of exposed veins. It was so enticing. She wanted it so badly. It was what she deserved, truly.
She should’ve been on that airplane with Jorge. Self-reproval flitted through her mind on an endless loop. Should have, should have, should have, you worthless idiot.
She gasped for air.
AutoScan—Colin Brennan, dial right now, she instructed, calling her brother via electrical impulses connected to her cranium. Five beeps sounded in her ear, then the line went dead.
Tears rolled down Lexi’s cheeks as she mentally composed another note to her best friend at SkyLine.
AutoScan—Jorge Rodrigues, don’t talk that way. You will land safely. Reagan International probably has space for diverted aircraft. You’ll be fine. I promise.
As she waited for Jorge’s reply, she dug her nails into her leg, reopening the wound on her thigh.
She picked at it, forcing the gash to widen. It was the size of a dime, then a quarter. She kept pulling, peeling, exposing her insides. She wanted her entire soul to leak out.
“Don’t leave me, Jorge,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
Colin tried to leave all the time. Lexi couldn’t handle another loss. She needed Jorge. He was her partner in crime, her other half. He was the best thing about being a flight attendant.
Words appeared in front of Lexi’s eyeball. Her chest tightened.
I don’t think we— Jorge began.
“What?” Lexi murmured aloud. Her hands fell to her sides, limp. “What is it, J.R.?”
Lexi craned her neck toward the red-streaked sky. She shouted, pleaded, implored her buddy bidder to write back. She wanted to hear details about his safe landing, after the pilots found an open runway someplace in Maryland.
Arms clasped around Lexi’s waist, dragging her back into the restaurant. She kicked and screamed, fighting to stay outside. She wanted the sky to collapse on her and drag her into the deep black unknown. She didn’t deserve the safety of four solid walls and a roof. She didn’t deserve to be in a city that had received minimal damage from the celestial hellfire.
Lexi began to chuckle as she was forced back inside the restaurant. She could barely breathe from laughing so hard. Through narrowed eyelids, Lexi saw customers and staff staring at her in disbelief. She continued flailing her limbs. She laughed with all her might, a deep guttural guffaw that echoed through the bar.
When a VirtuAlarm informed Lexi that two planes in the Northeast had been struck down, she was convinced she’d dreamt the whole thing. The aircraft she was supposed to be on that night had not burst into flames. No way, no how. Jorge was not dead. Lexi would wake up soon, she knew. She would call him. They’d talk about her silly nightmare, her tendency to imagine the worst possible scenario, her bizarre fear of erupting into laughter during a moment of crisis.
Lexi would wake up and chat with Jorge for hours. And she would not swap out of their next scheduled airline trip.
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