by Brea Brown
Gus dispassionately twirls one of his chopsticks along his knuckles while I throw my temper tantrum across the coffee table from him.
“Lucas Edwards is a pompous, old-before-his-time fart with a broomstick so far up his ass that you can see the tip of the handle when he opens his mouth wide enough. Which he does often, because he never shuts the fuck up, since he’s enthralled with the sound of his voice. I can’t believe I ever thought for five seconds that he was attractive.” My cheeks flare at that admission.
My friend immediately picks up on it, and his eyes sparkle when he says, “Oh? This is the first I’m hearing of this. Details, please! Is he, like, good-looking in a brooding, scary way? You know, like Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre?”
His mention of the same literary work Mr. Buttface Edwards used to disparage my fire scene causes a pang that’s almost physically painful. I sneer. “Not really. Well, sort of. He has a nice body. I guess. And pretty eyes. But then he speaks.”
Gus nods knowingly and goes back to twirling his eating utensil, his mouth slackened in concentration. “Oh. Thinks he’s God’s gift to women, huh?”
“He thinks he’s God’s gift to writing! Well, why doesn’t he write his own fucking book, then? Huh? Huh?”
His mouth closes with a snap before he replies somewhat dully, “Uh… Yeah. This is a situation to end all situations, sister. He’s a bajiggety… boo-face.”
For a second, I’m disappointed by my friend’s going-through-the-motions tone, but then I realize that when we’re not talking about something that directly affects him (or dishing about a hot guy), he’s not nearly as passionate as he would be when, say, someone tries to edge their way in front of him in line at the grocery store.
To get him back into the conversation—and on my side—I point out, “Well, this is going to push back any plans for a movie, too. After all, you can’t write a screenplay from a book that’s not finished. Even though it is finished. Just not to somebody’s liking. Ten people before him have read the damn thing, and it’s passed muster, but nooooo… Mr. Tight-Ass Editor has to make sure his bosses don’t think he’s obsolete. He has to somehow put his stamp on something that’s not his. Then he can take some credit when it’s a bestseller. But he doesn’t realize he’s holding up the entire process! Half the actors we have in mind for the characters in the book are going to be way too old by the time Lucas Dingleberry Edwards is satisfied enough to send the book to print.”
Now Gus straightens, and annoyance flashes in his eyes. “Oh, my God! I hadn’t even thought of that, girl! Who does this Lucas Ass-Loogie Edwards think he is, anyway? As if you didn’t consider other tragedies besides a house fire when you wrote the damn book?! Of course, you did! You’re a writer. I’m sure you researched tornadoes, earthquakes, terrorist attacks, floods, hurricanes, you name it! Why can’t he trust your judgment and realize that you had very good reasons for choosing and sticking with the house fire thing? I mean, c’mon…!”
“Uh…” I dip the tip of my chopstick in a puddle of soy sauce and use it like an old quill pen and ink on my paper plate. “Actually… no. I didn’t consider anything other than a house fire,” I admit quietly.
Doggedly, Gus says, “Well, anyway. Whatever! It’s your damn book. Like you said, no one else has had a problem with it ’til now. Although…” Picking up a stray grain of rice with the tip of his finger and examining it up close with one eye, he asks cautiously, “…would it be so horrible to consider his suggestion? You know, kick it around to see if there’s something that jumps out at you?”
At my incredulous look, he hurries on. “Well… he’s kind of a dickhead—”
“Yeah, we’ve established that!”
“—but he’s a successful dickhead with a lot of experience.” He flicks the grain of rice in my direction. It sails over my shoulder.
“So, he’s read a lot of books. So has your grandma. That doesn’t mean I’m going to call her up and change my plot to whatever she’s in the mood to read.” I huffily start to gather our trash and stuff it into the white paper sacks strewn around us.
“No, no, no! Leave my Nana Dupuis out of this. Anyway, that’s not what I meant. Let me put it this way.” He sighs and seems to be reading from the inside of his forehead. “If you do what he says—or at least try—everything goes more smoothly? Oui? So… you slop an alternate disaster scene together, and if it flows and feels like it works, you consider the next step, which is blending it in with the rest of the story and replacing the fire with the tornado or earthquake or what-have-you. If it’s crap—which you can always guarantee it is, if that’s the route you want to take—then you show it to him, shrug your shoulders, and say, ‘See? The original is better.’ Mea culpa and all that jazz. Capice?”
His misuse and mixing of languages and colloquialism aside, it’s still a shitty idea, but I don’t have anything better. I’m too angry to come up with a plan other than, “Find a new editor,” and I’ll need the cooperation of my agent to do that. An agent who thinks the sun shines out of Lucas Edwards’ ass. An agent who’s already told me in not so many words that I’m stuck with this d-bag, ’til publication do us part.
And if the fire/tornado debate were the only toxic soup simmering between Lucas Edwards and me, that would be enough to feed an army, but… there are about six other broths and stews bubbling on the literary stove that is my manuscript. We only had time to discuss three or four, which means I have the pleasure of another meeting with him to look forward to. And he told me straight out that he expects to see the changes we discussed (again, the word “dictated” is more appropriate here, but Lucas likes to pretend that his mandates are “discussions,” during which I see the light and decide to do exactly what he wants me to do) at our next meeting.
When I don’t say anything in response to Gus’s seemingly disloyal speech, he says, “C’mon, Jayne. Big picture, girl. Big picture.”
I glare at him. I used to use those words when imploring him to keep things in perspective when we were younger. I don’t appreciate him throwing them in my face now. Through gritted teeth, I say, “I am thinking of the big picture, Gus. Thank you.”
He shows me his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. Just checking. Books on shelves, right?”
“Yeah, my book. The way I wrote it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Der. But… it will be the way you wrote it, no matter what happens between now and then. You’re going to write it.” He catches the balled-up bag I throw at his head. “Hey! I’m just sayin’, Chicka-Boom-Boom! Think about it. You have control here.”
“How do you figure?” I ask miserably. Honestly, I don’t want to be reassured or cheered up or mollified at this juncture. All I want him to do is curse Lucas Edwards, his family, and any current or future descendants of the man. Is that so much to ask? Apparently so. Because my friend is a frustrated queen who’s always wanted to be a cheerleader. And who wants me to stop pouting, get my book to print, and get a movie in the making before his beloved Nicholas Hoult outgrows the role of Jack.
“I know you don’t have as much experience with men as you should, but take it from me, Honey-Buns… All you have to do is make your grouchy editor think that every idea is his. He wants a tornado; you want a fire. You punch up the descriptive details in your fire scene, including mention of a tornado of fire. Then you thank him profusely for the inspiration. Are you pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?”
Despite my foul mood—and a blooming headache, thanks to my self-destructive addiction to soy sauce—I feel a slow smile spreading across my face. “Yes… I think I am.”
“This jackleg’s just another picky professor with a syllabus of tedious assignments. You never shied away from those challenges back in the day. What’s the diff?”
I chuckle bitterly at this comparison. “Appeasing a professor for a grade is one thing; but making fundamental changes to my novel—a project that’s like a child to me—feels like selling out.”
“Oh, good
gravy!”
“What?”
He launches the bag of our dinner waste toward the trash can and seems to consider it a win when it lands on the floor next to the bin. Standing, he stretches, making his checked button-up shirt ride up and show an expanse of flat, hairless belly and a perfect innie belly button. “Sister-friend, you already done sold out!”
“I beg your pardon!” I stand, too, ready to hurdle the coffee table and scratch out his eyes if he persists with his offensive accusation.
Tugging his shirt into place, he tilts his head at me and blinks pointedly. “You’re getting paid for this, right? Then, bam! Sell-out. And I completely approve, by the way. What’s the point in producing art if you can’t profit from it? But… then you can’t get up on your high horse, either.”
Damn if he doesn’t have a point. Can I win even one argument today? If I were willing to tell him that I felt like I’d be betraying family members that he doesn’t even know existed, I might score a measly point, but using my personal tale of woe as inspiration for my novel is admittedly the epitome of selling out. Anyway, I’m not desperate enough to win that point; I won’t be telling Gus—or anyone—how close my debut novel follows the story of my life.
After much consideration, I retort lamely and without rancor, “Bite me.”
He grins, showing off his magnificent, orthodontist-perfected choppers. “I would, girl, but you know I don’t swing that way. Now I don’t know about you, but I need to spend an hour or two in the little boys’ room after that meal and then head off to the Land of Nod, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
Unfortunately, I speak fluent Gusese, so I do know exactly what he’s sayin’.
******
The next morning is an exercise in ignoring. First off, I use supreme self-control as I ignore my dialing thumb, which is itching for me to call Tullah and appeal to her human side about finding a new editor for me. Coffee helps. Thinking about the monumental task of complying—or pretending to comply—with Editor Mussolini’s changes to my manuscript brings the itching back full force.
Must resist.
Cure for every ailment or problem I’ve ever had: writing. Oh, the irony. Well, I tell myself, I’m not going to get anywhere until I get started (thank you, Captain Obvious), so I slide my laptop from its case, boot it up, and open the most recent version of my manuscript. Breathing deeply through my nose, I close my eyes and then scroll to the fire scene. Fire tornado. I can do this.
This is when I have to ignore the screaming in my head: You can’t do this!!! That’s why you purposely made the fire marshal tell Rose what happened. To keep it clinical, unemotional, and brief, and to avoid any chance of your graphic imagination running away with you.
Right. Well, the first time I wrote this was five years ago. It’s been twelve years since the actual fire. Surely, I can detach myself—as a professional—enough to do what’s required here.
Right?
A tingle at my hairline alerts me to the cold sweat breaking out there. Chills run up and down the backs of my thighs. My vision narrows, and my breathing quickens. The walls of Gus’s tiny apartment close in further.
Must not panic.
I take several slow, deep breaths until my facial features feel like they’re in proportion with the rest of my head again before focusing on the blinking cursor in front of me. Professional detachment. That’s what I’m going for here. I summon the disclaimer I’ve read inside so many books and before countless movies. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental. Yes. They’re characters, not my family members.
After all, that’s what I need everyone to believe.
I ignore the voice in my head that calls me a fraud.
It’s drowned out, anyway, by the couple next door, who is having a very loud argument. From what I can tell, the male half of the partnership left the seat up on the toilet “for the thousandth time,” and the female half fell in, because she doesn’t have her contact lenses in, which—according to the offender—isn’t his fault. It’s glimpses like this into coupledom that make me thankful I’m a hermit-in-training and don’t have to deal with anyone else’s bad habits and idiosyncrasies.
Well, other than Gus’s, but that’s only temporary, until I find my own place. Or am driven by his interesting lifestyle to a hotel, whichever comes first. He was so generous to allow me to stay with him, but he didn’t tell me that he lived in a sardine can with a futon serving as his bed (and every seat other than the toilet) and a coffee table serving as every surface. I guess it’s a testament to his generous nature that he felt obligated to offer me accommodations when he literally doesn’t have an inch to spare here. I’ve seen bigger walk-in closets. In college dormitories.
But I didn’t want to settle down in this part of the country without making sure this could be my true home. As a writer (at least I think that’s what I am), I can live wherever I want, so I think it’s important that I find a place where I feel comfortable and—at the risk of sounding too arsty-fartsy—inspired. This is the first time I’ve ever been to this area of the country, but based on what I’ve read and seen so far, I think it’ll be a good fit for me, especially if I can find a way to live near the water. I’ve had my fill of land-locked, drought-prone tinderbox states.
Good news: the couple next door isn’t fighting anymore. Bad news: they’re having very loud make-up sex on the other side of the wall, about ten feet away from where I’m sitting, from the sound of… things.
That settles it. I have to get out of here if I’m going to get anything done. Some things are impossible to ignore, and loud sex is probably number one on the list.
The laptop goes back in its bag. I check to make sure my wallet’s still tucked in there, too, pocket the apartment key that Gus left for me on the coffee table/desk/dining table, and vacate the premises before thinking about where I’m going to go. I’ll figure it out when I get to a place where I can hear myself think.
******
This is hopeless. Having never tried to write anywhere but the comfort of my own home, I never realized how particular I am about the setting in which I work. I don’t have any weird physical rituals that I perform before each writing session (turn around three times before sitting in the chair; close eyes while rubbing pencil between palms; take a deep breath; open eyes; toss pencil; type), but the conditions have to be right. And some of those conditions aren’t conducive to public venues.
For example, I can’t exactly set out my favorite sugar-cookie-scented LED flameless candle in the Boston Public Library. But somehow that smell has become an olfactory muse. As much as I love the smell of books and polished wood, it’s not as inspirational to me.
If that were the only idiosyncrasy I had, I’d probably be able to work around it. But I’ve also become dependent on another crutch: the large fleece blanket that I usually drape over my lap, legs, and feet. It seems like an insignificant thing, and, indeed, it started out that way. One day I was cold, so I grabbed the fleece blanket from the foot of my bed. And that would be the end of that story, if not for the fact that I had one of the most productive writing days… ever!
The next day, when I was stuck on a plodding plot point, I spotted the blanket from the corner of my eye while I was staring into space. It was exactly where I’d left it, in a heap in the middle of the floor, where I’d dropped it on my way to bed the night before. On a whim, I snatched it from the floor, arranged it evenly over my legs, and then tucked it under my thighs and feet. Immediately, a feeling of security and warmth—both literal and figurative—came over me. I relaxed, the ideas flowed, and I had another 20,000-word day that stretched way into the late night. Since then, the blanket has been my constant partner.
And, yet, I brought neither of them with me on this trip.
I must be getting cocky.
Did I think an editor wasn’t going to require me to do any re-writes? Am I starting to believe too much of the pra
ise that’s been heaped on me by Tullah and everyone at Thornfield Publishing besides Lucas Edwards?
No, I think the real issue is that I didn’t realize how dependent I had become on my candle and my—gulp—blankie. It’s embarrassing.
And it supports my theory that I’m a hack. I’m an imposter, and it’s all going to come crashing down around me. They’re all going to find out that I can’t write. This book is a fluke, and the only reason I was able write it is that I’ve lived with the pain for so long that it was clawing to get out. It wrote itself. I was merely the medium. The three-book deal I signed with Thornfield is going to be my undoing. I’m not going to be able to fulfill it. And then everyone will know.
That thought triggers my second panic attack of the day, which attracts quite a bit of attention my way. I haven’t been able to write anything at the Boston Public Library, anyway, but the anxiety and curious stares are the deciding factors in my leave-taking. It’s safe to say I won’t be back to this branch, either. Ever. I don’t think that’s going to break the heart of the librarian who looked like she didn’t know whether to call 911 or Homeland Security as I was wheezing my way toward the exit.
On the sidewalk, I sweat, trying to avoid the stream of pedestrians giving me no more notice than water would give to a rock. Slowly, I edge my way to an unoccupied piece of cement against the side of the building, where I pause to catch my breath and figure out where to go next. Just because the library was an epic fail doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up so easily. I have an editor to trick into thinking I’m complying with his editorial requests. If I can pull that off, then maybe I can feel like I truly deserve to be a successful writer.
I have to find a place to write, though.
Chapter Six
