Unconventional

by J J Hebert

  Marge Browner

  Greck Literary Agency

  Doesn’t sound right for you? As in, it isn’t a good story? As in, the dialogue is choppy? As in, the narrative is weak? What do you mean, Marge? You don’t like the title of the book? I think it’s a solid title. Short and to the point. Memorable. And the novel as a whole sounds right to me. It sounded right to my friend Arthur, too, and he’s a professional editor. Did you even read the excerpts I sent you? I shove the letter back in its envelope and tuck it in my jacket.

  The subsequent letter reads:

  Dear James,

  Thank you for your query. Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem like something I can get behind.

  By the way, is Frost your actual last name or is it a penname? You might want to change it, as there isn’t room for another Frost who writes.

  Cindy Deramont

  Thibault Literary Agency

  Isn’t enough room for another Frost who writes? Actually, it is my real last name, and there is room for another Frost who writes, thank you very much. I have an idea as to what you can get behind. How about a farting horse? This letter, too, finds its way into my jacket. Once again, I hear: You’re not good enough. They don’t like you. Loser. Sissy.

  The third and final letter of the day says:

  James Frost:

  Your book doesn’t fit my list. Good luck finding an agent elsewhere.

  Sincerely,

  Daphne Dergan

  Just like that, I’ve compiled six rejections total, including the publisher’s rejection. At my lowest of lows, the fraudulent voice repeats the abuse, You’re not good enough. They don’t like you.

  Suddenly, the origin of the voice dawns on me. I can see Brad from Langwood High School standing next to the lockers, wearing a malevolent grin, spiky blond hair and expensive clothing. I imagine myself standing before him in the school.

  I stare into his unkind eyes.

  He glowers at me.

  I turn away, and my eyes sweep the hallway.

  We’re alone.

  He opens a nearby locker, pulls out a heap of paper, and reads from the top sheet. The Forsaken World, by James Frost. Chapter One. Dreco woke with a start, eyes burning, mind wrapped around the image of a bloody corpse, his latest victim . . . Brad stops reading and throws down the manuscript; it hits the tiles, and papers scatter. He laughs and laughs, then says, Give up on the writing, sissy.

  * * *

  On another day, in the throes of depression, sitting on my bed, I open five more rejection letters. Brad comes alive, this time standing in the middle of my room like an apparition. I brace myself for more ridicule. . . .

  * * *

  Friendless, completely despondent, alone in this fetid car, I tear open four rejections at the mailbox. Every pleasant thought, feeling, and emotion is sucked from my soul.

  Somehow I need to get to the school to clean.

  * * *

  Five new rejection slips. This makes twenty rejections total.

  Brad appears, sporting a grin. He doesn’t need to say anything.

  I drop to one knee before my bed, tears leaking down my cheeks. Every single agent and publisher responded with rejection. I’m zero for twenty. What am I going to do now? I have no desire to write. I look down at my hands, hating them, wanting them removed. They did this to me. They wrote The Forsaken World.

  I need to talk with someone. I contemplate calling Sam but know he won’t pick up. I think about calling Donovan, but he’s busy with his own life, and he wouldn’t understand this. I ponder calling Arthur or Mitch, but I don’t want to be a bother. I even consider speaking with Dad, but I don’t know where he is. I want to speak with Leigh more than any of the aforementioned people, but that can’t happen because she isn’t back from her vacation. Actually, even if I could get in touch with her, I’m not sure I’d tell her about the rejections anyway, for fear that she won’t find me appealing anymore.

  As I reflect on the ideal place to obtain a gun, which type of gun to use, and what kind of bullets to purchase, my landline phone rings, nearly sending me to the floor in shock. I fumble for the phone, grab it, and press TALK. “Hello?”

  “James, my boy!” Mitch’s voice resounds on the other end. “I have something for you. Can you meet me at DJ’s in an hour for lunch?”

  “Umm—I—maybe—I—well—”

  “I want you to have this letter, James,” he says.

  I’ve seen enough letters lately. “Letter? What type of letter?” I ask.

  “You’re gonna have to meet up with me to find out.”

  I place my suicidal thoughts on the backburner. “How’s one o’clock for you?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DJ’s, a diner in Moose Acres, my hometown, is nestled between a candy shop and a convenience store. As I walk through the front door, my stomach growls; I haven’t been eating much lately. My appetite has been virtually absent. I’ll eat a bowl of soup here and there, maybe a package of saltines, but that’s about it.

  The hostess greets me. “Table for one?”

  I shake my head. “For two, please. The other person should be here soon.”

  “Right this way.” She waves me toward a vacant table and seats me.

  I sit alone, as always, it seems, disappearing in my thoughts, when I notice Mitch walk through the door. He strolls past the hostess, the waiters and waitresses, smiling at each of them as he passes. He joins me at the table with a wrapped box. His appearance hasn’t changed. His head is still bald. No sign of Rogaine. He’s still wearing those oval-shaped glasses.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says, removing his brown suede jacket. He sits down on the other side of the table. “Traffic was brutal.” He places the wrapped item by his side on the seat. “So good to see you, James!”

  “You too.” I smile. “How’ve you been?” I beat him to the standard question.

  “Great. I got back from New York yesterday. I was at a golf show testing the market for this new invention.” He pulls out a golf ball from a pocket. I swear, every time we meet, he has a fresh invention to show off. He lets the ball roll into his palm and, with palm aimed upward, moves the hand across the table, about a foot from my nose. “I haven’t settled on a name for this one yet. I’m torn between three names.”

  “What does it do?” I look down into his hand.

  He grins, excited. “This puppy travels ten percent further than your average golf ball. Everyone at the show loved it.”

  “Is this the final product?” I ask, directing my attention to his smiling face as he pulls his hand back.

  He tucks the ball away. “Nope. Just the prototype. I’m meeting with the packager next week. We should have it ready by March, right about the time you’re published.” He winks behind his spectacles, clears his throat. “I’m proud of you for finishing The Forsaken World, James.”

  I smile dryly. If he only knew about the rejections, then he wouldn’t feel so proud of me.

  Mitch continues, “The average person can’t do what you’ve done. You know that, right?”

  Write a book that no one wants? Get rejected twenty times? Actually, Mitch, I think many people could do that.

  He rests an arm on the table, his eyes fixed on my face. “I don’t know if you’ve ever thought of this, but what I do and what you do are very similar,” he says. “I invent golf balls and other sporting goods. You invent stories. In a way, we’re both inventors. We each conceive an idea, map out how we’re going to tackle the idea, and we bring it to fruition.” He adjusts his glasses. “Many people only get as far as the first step, conceiving the idea. They don’t know what to do from that point on. But you and I are so alike, James; we know how to proceed, to go full speed after our ideas.”

  “Full speed is right.” I laugh. “I feel like I haven’t breathed for the last two years.”

  He grins. “Once again, I can relate.”

  I shake my head. “It’s so friggin hard.
”

  “What is?”

  I fold my hands on the table, leaning forward a smidgen. “Being different all the time,” I say. “It’s like an automatic strike against me. I feel so alone sometimes.”

  He nods, understanding. “The greatest and most inspiring achievements are not produced by those who conform to society’s idea of normal, but by those who courageously adopt the unconventional.” He halts for emphasis. “Sound familiar?”

  “Very,” I say.

  “Nowhere does it say it’s going to be easy, James. Being unconventional doesn’t exactly make you popular. And that, of course, is why so many shy away from the concept of unconventionality. It’s hard, like you said.”

  The waitress flits past our table, carrying a tray full of food.

  I lean toward Mitch. “I swear, people think I’m crazy for writing.” I pause. “Has anyone ever thought you were crazy?”

  He laughs. “All the time, and I think it’s great.”

  “What’s great about being perceived as crazy?”

  He grins. “Because one day, when they least expect it, and when you need it most, everything will come together. That’s when you can point a finger in their direction and say, ‘See? I wasn’t crazy after all. I made it.’” He clears his throat again. “Sorry. Getting over a cold,” he says. Then he carries on, “When I first got out of college, I came across a guy who taught me everything he knew about business. He took me under his wing and I worked for him for a while, selling antique bullets. After about a year and a half, the work became dry and I wanted out. One morning, while I was taking a dump, of all things, an idea struck that I felt very optimistic about. The idea was a glow-in-the-dark football. Over the course of the next year, I created a rough prototype and felt obliged to pursue the idea on a larger scale.”-

  “You quit selling bullets, didn’t you?”

  He smiles. “I went up to Mr. Winger and told him that I was going to be an inventor, and that I wouldn’t be able to sell bullets for him any longer.”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “He said, ‘Kid, are you crazy?’” Out of the corner of his eye, Mitch sees the server standing at the table. He signals for another minute with a raised pointer finger. “In hindsight, maybe I was a little crazy,” he says. “Crazy like a fox.” He smiles wryly. “If I had listened to him and conformed to his idea of normal, James, look at all I would’ve missed out on.”

  “You’d be a totally different person.”

  “And a totally sad person,” he adds.

  Our attention gradually falls on the menus. We figure out what we want for lunch, and the waitress returns and takes our order. After she leaves, we’re up and running with our conversation again.

  “Mitch, I have to tell you something . . .”

  “What is it? Don’t be shy.”

  “I’m afraid if I tell you, you won’t think so highly of me anymore.”

  “My pride in you is unmovable, James. Remember that.” He leans back in the booth. “Now tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Everyone who I sent my writing to rejected it. I’ve accumulated twenty rejections.” Merely stating the fact stings.

  “Have you ever heard of Meranda Erickson, by any chance?”

  “A writer, right?”

  “The understatement of the year,” says Mitch. “Meranda won the Pulitzer Prize twice and was a New York Times bestseller for nine of her novels. She’s practically a legend in publishing.” He removes a newspaper clipping from another pocket and passes it over the table. “Take a look at that article,” he says. “It was in the New Hampshire Globe this past week. Cut it out just for you. . . . According to the write-up, she lives in Moose Acres, your hometown! She’s lived here for thirteen years. She’s sixty-two now.”

  I scan the clipping, see her picture beneath bold letters: FANS CRY OUT FOR NEW ERICKSON NOVEL.

  Mitch says, “Take a look at the end of the article. Look at how many times she was rejected before her first novel was published.”

  I scan the article. Spot the number. “Sixty-two. Holy crap.”

  “Once for every year of her life. Makes your twenty look like nothing, doesn’t it?” Mitch clasps his hands behind his head; I nod. He says, “She hasn’t written a novel in ten years. I figure, if she’s not writing, then she must have plenty of time on her hands. I’m going to try and track her down. She’d be a good person to have on your side. And she lives in your backyard.” He brings his hands into his lap.

  The food arrives hot and fresh. My appetite is still flagging; I can eat only a quarter of my burger and half of my fries. Mitch eats his entire plate of chicken fingers and fries, then brings the wrapped box up from his side and sets it on the table.

  “That can’t be the letter you were telling me about,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a really thick box for a letter.”

  Mitch smiles. “When I spotted this, I knew it was meant for you.” He rests his hand on the top of the box, taps at it. “Here.” He pushes it my way. “Open it up,” he says.

  I don’t waste any time. I tear the wrapping apart and open the box. I pull out a picture frame and find a handwritten letter encased behind the glass. The stationery says HOMER NOBLE FARM: LIPTON, VERMONT and the letter is dated JULY 1, 1959. The letter reads:

  Dear Mr. Lonesome,

  I’ve read your material. You’re on the right road. I’ll keep an eye out for your name.

  Goose bumps rise on my arms as I eye Robert Frost’s signature.

  “Coincidence or fate?” Mitch questions. “You tell me.”

  “Where’d you get this?” I ask desperately.

  “You won’t believe me,” he says, “but I got it from my brother-in-law’s antique shop.”

  “And where’d he get it?”

  “I asked him that same question and he said he couldn’t remember. . . . James, do you see the significance in this letter? Remember? Our trip to his house in Franconia? Your poem? His mailbox?”

  “My goodness, Mitch. Thank you!” I take a deep breath, holding the frame at eye level. “Thank you.”

  “I think Robert’s trying to tell you something.” Mitch takes a drink of water. “Have another look at the name of the addressee.”

  “Mr. Lonesome,” I say.

  “Yes, James. This letter is clearly addressed to you.” He winks.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I decide the ideal place to mount my Robert Frost letter is on the wall to the left of my bed. I spike a couple nails on the partition and hang the frame. From here, lying on this bed, all I have to do is twist my neck slightly and I can read his message. I glance at it repeatedly.

  I ponder Mr. Lonesome. He was obviously a writer, and Robert Frost felt inclined to write him a letter. How old was Mr. Lonesome? Twenty? Twenty-five? Thirty? Eighty? What type of writing did he practice? I suspect he might have been a poet. Whoever he was, however old, whatever type of writing he produced, I’m sure Mr. Lonesome wasn’t a real name. Could have been a moniker. Perhaps Robert was commenting on one of the writer’s attributes. Sort of like when you call someone highly successful and ostentatiously confident “Mr. Hotshot.”

  What really gets my blood pumping is when I think about how in the world this letter found me. It appears that Robert wrote the letter while living at his farm in Vermont. I know from reading extensively about Robert that Homer Noble Farm was purchased a year after his wife’s death. It was there that he felt loneliest. Maybe Robert felt a kinship with Mr. Lonesome and it drove him to write this letter. . . . Robert won the Pulitzer four times, and wrote without many breaks. I can’t imagine he responded to everyone who sent correspondence his direction. He wouldn’t have had time to do that and keep a steady writing schedule. I’m sold on the notion that Robert saw himself in Mr. Lonesome.

  Empathy is a great gift. When we’ve been through something that someone else has been through. That’s when we look at a person and, as from a mirror, catch our
own reflection. It would be like me receiving a letter from someone who cleans and who’s trying to write for a living. How could I pass on responding? If I were to ignore him, I would be discounting myself.

  Back on topic: How in the world did this letter find me? It’s decades old, and it wasn’t initially intended for a person by the name of James Frost. I stare deeper into the frame. Or was it? In my mind’s eye, a vast hand plucks the letter from Mr. Lonesome’s abandoned home. God guides it through myriad channels of auctions and, through divine influence, projects a thought onto Mitch’s brother-in-law to go to a particular auction and buy boxes of memorabilia, which, without brother-in-law’s knowledge, contains the letter that Mitch ultimately finds.

  This ought to cheer me up, but it doesn’t. Brad isn’t far away. The horde of rejection letters is seated neatly on the dresser to the right of my bed. My girlfriend is in another country. At the moment, I am Mr. Lonesome.

  * * *

  I receive a postcard from Leigh; it bears photographs of beaches and the word FLORIDA spread across the top. I read the postcard before I head to work:

  James,

  We’re in a stopover in FL for fuel and I wanted to make sure to write you. Travel time has been longer than expected due to hurricanes and storms, but thinking about you has kept me busy—in a good way. I am so thankful to have you in my life. I can’t wait to get back and see you, show you all the pics, and tell you all about the trip!

  I hope your week is going well. Will be thinking of you! Wish you were here . . .

  Miss you,

  Leigh

  My heart smarts. She may be thankful to have me in her life now, but wait until she finds out that I’m a loser, that I can’t even get one positive response from an agent or publisher.