by Banks, R. R.
A teenage girl gets to her feet, looking shy and nervous. I give her a warm smile and do my best to set her at ease – not such an easy thing to do when I’m not feeling entirely comfortable under the spotlight myself.
“You have a question?” I prompt her.
Her smile falters for a moment, but she seems to regain her footing. “I’ve read everything you’ve written,” she starts. “Even your short stories. And I’m a writer too. I – I just want to know what advice you’d give to younger writers.”
I breathe a silent sigh of relief – this is one of those expected questions. “I appreciate your support more than I can say. And I’d give a younger writer the same advice I’d give an older writer,” I tell her, “read a lot, write even more. Write every day – even if you end up scrapping it later. Just don’t stop writing and never, ever, ever give up on your dream. Ever.”
The answer seems to appease the girl, and she sits down, smiling wide. I breathe a silent sight of relief. I like starting off the Q&A sessions with a softball question. It lets me get my feet under me and build up a little steam. I’ve learned that starting off with a lighthearted, fun back-and-forth can help set a good tone for the rest of the session. After all, if people are smiling and laughing, they’re less apt to be jerks.
Usually.
By the way the twenty-something-year-old guy with a cocky smirk on his face and an air of smug arrogance about him stands up, I can tell he’s going to be a jerk. My heart flutters in my chest. I’ve never been a big fan of confrontation – especially in public. I’m usually pretty softly-spoken and will avoid arguments if I can. But if somebody pushes me, I’m not going to let myself be steamrolled, either – my mom taught me to have more self-respect than that.
“Good evening, thanks for coming out,” I smile. “What’s your question?”
“Yeah, I read your book and I have to say it’s got some pretty dark themes to it,” he begins. “Things you don’t usually see in women’s writing.”
I shrug. “We’re living in dark times,” I offer. “My stories tend to reflect society on many levels.”
“Perhaps. But don’t you see reading as an escape from modern reality?” he goes on, his voice dripping with condescension. “Don’t you think you have a responsibility to your readers to provide them with relief from that darkness in society you just spoke of?”
I suppress the sigh and sharp words that threaten to erupt from my throat. I’ve seen enough comments online to know where this guy is going with this line of questions. There is a group of men – and it’s definitely all men – who don’t appreciate a woman writing in the darker genres. They seem to believe that things like mystery and horror are the domain of men only.
I’ve seen them trashing other female writers online and have recently started seeing them ripping my work apart, but this is the first time I’ve ever come across one in a public setting, let alone at one of my events.
“So, I’m assuming you think I should be writing about sunshine, rainbows, and magic fairy sparkle dust?” I fire back. “Is that about right?”
The smirk on his face gets even greasier. “That’s not exactly what I said,” he counters. “All I’m trying to say is that your job is to entertain and give people a break from their daily life, rather than add to the darkness –”
“I appreciate you telling me what my job is,” I give him my most saccharine sweet smile. “With this itty-bitty female brain of mine, I just wasn’t sure. I’m just so glad there are people like you here to tell me.”
The air in the room is growing thick with tension, and people are shifting in their seats uncomfortably. I sneak a peek at Maura, and she’s just standing there grinning. She’d never encourage me to actively engage in a debate with this kind of guy. As she says, don’t feed the trolls or give credence to them. At the same time, though, she knows me well enough to know that when somebody gets me going, I’m not going to back down.
Besides, I think deep down she likes it when I get my feathers ruffled – she’s a bit of a feminist and likes seeing overtly sexist men shot down. I’m just a woman who doesn’t like to take shit from anybody.
The guy smirks and gives me a condescending shake of the head. “Traditionally speaking, men typically occupy the darker genres –”
“Because until recently, women weren’t given a lot of opportunity in the field.”
“Don’t you think there’s a reason for that?”
“Other than sexist pigs being the gatekeepers and keeping women on the outside looking in?”
Quiet laughter ripples through the crowd and the man’s face darkens. His eyes narrow, and he clenches his jaw. He’s obviously not used to being spoken to the way I’m talking back to him. He’s a man obviously not accustomed to having a woman stand up to him.
“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” he continues.
I let out a long breath and glare at the man. “Look, I’m not going to get into a debate about sexual politics with you. This isn’t the appropriate venue for it,” I grumble. “So, if that’s what you’re looking for, go back to your mother’s basement and hop online like you usually do. You’re not ready for live TV just yet.”
The audience explodes in laughter, and the man grows visibly angry. I usually don’t let things escalate to the point where I’m hurling personal insults, but this guy is really getting under my skin.
The man opens his mouth to spew more of his noxious nattering, but event security grabs him and pulls him out of the audience. As they cart him off, he’s screaming about his First Amendment rights and how women are ruining everything. The crowd is laughing and catcalling after him as he struggles with the security guard. As he’s shoved out the doors, he shoots everybody the finger.
Yeah, he’s a real peach and a fine representative of his gender.
As I look out over the crowd, I see a lot of supportive faces. We’re set up in a large room on the bottom floor of the bookstore, just off the coffee house. It’s not a large room, but it’s pretty packed. The minute the guy is out of the room, the atmosphere lightens considerably, like all of the tension left with him.
Even though it’s standing room only, I can’t help but notice another guy standing off to the side of the room alone in jeans and a sweatshirt. He’s sort of hunched down over himself, almost like he’s trying to hide inside of his hoodie, nursing a cup of coffee.
Unlike the rest of the crowd, there’s no emotion on his face. He just stares at me blankly and it sends a chill sweeping through me. He’s not doing anything wrong, he’s just – standing there. There’s just something about him that bothers me. I don’t like being unkind to people, but he’s kind of – creepy.
Once the crowd settles down, I do my best to put the second guy out of my mind. I figure I’m just being paranoid since I’m already feeling rattled thanks to Mr. Anti-Feminist 2019. I focus on the other people in the room and spend the next half hour or so answering questions and thankfully, nothing else unexpected comes up.
By the time I’m done, I notice that the guy in the hoodie is gone and I’m feeling pretty good about myself. No major gaffes, and I didn’t trip over my tongue, which is a big improvement for me.
“Thank you all for your questions. And thank you all for coming out tonight,” Maura beams as she steps to the lectern. “Next up is the book signing, so if you can all form an orderly line, we’ll be with you shortly.”
As the crowd assembles to have their copies of my book signed, Maura leads me to a back room and hands me a bottle of water.
“Great job out there,” she cries and pulls me into a tight embrace. “You handled that moron so incredibly well. I’m so proud of you, Felicity.”
“Thanks, Maura,” I give her a grin. “I just tried to do what I thought you’d do.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t completely follow my example, because I would have set that jerk on fire.”
We share a laugh and I spend a few minutes letting myself wind down a bit before I g
o back out to sign books for my fans. Fans. My fans. I still feel like I need to pinch myself when I think about actually having fans who’d wait in line to have me sign their book for them. It’s something I dreamt of as a kid, but not something I thought would actually come to pass. I mean, I harbored the hope, but I’ve always been realistic enough to know the chances were slim that I’d make it.
And yet, here we are. As unreal as it seems to me even still.
Not that I’m a big star or anything right now, but I’m building a following. It’s small right now but is growing. Steadily. And in large part, I have Maura to thank for that. She works tirelessly for me, doing everything she knows how to do to get my name out there. To help build my fanbase.
“Hey, listen,” I start slowly. “Did you happen to see the guy in the back? The guy in the hoodie?”
Maura screws up her face and shakes her head. “No, I don’t recall anybody in a hoodie. Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just something about that guy gave me the creeps.”
She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You’re always going to have a few creepers hanging around. Guys who happen to be in the store and have nothing better to do than hang around and leer at you. He was probably just waiting for his wife. Don’t stress about it.”
I grin and shake my head. “I’m sure he can find better things to leer at.”
“Please,” she teases me. “You’re young, beautiful, and successful. You’re very leer-worthy.”
The laughter bursts from my throat before I can stop it. “Shut up.”
“I only speak the truth.”
My cheeks are burning, and I can only imagine the particular shade of red they are at the moment. In addition to public speaking, I also suck at taking compliments – and of the two, I’d rather speak in front of a crowd in the biggest stadium on the planet.
“Forget about hoodie man,” Maura says. “Go out there and meet your adoring public, sign some books, and bask in their worship of you.”
She grabs me by the shoulders, turns me around, and gives me a playful slap on the ass to get me moving. As I step out into the main room again, I’m met with a thunderous applause that has me smiling – and blushing – as I take my seat behind the table, all thoughts of hoodie man are thankfully forgotten.
Felicity
“Sounds like you’re on your way, sis.”
“I don’t know about that,” I deflect. “I’m a step closer to getting where I want to go today than I was yesterday.”
“The sky is the limit for you, kid.”
Peter raises his glass of wine and I follow suit, tapping my glass against his. My big brother has been my biggest cheerleader. He encouraged me to follow my heart when I first told him about wanting to be a writer. He pushed me to do what brings me joy in this life, telling me we’ve only got so many years, and it’s better to spend them happy, rather than being miserable.
Peter’s a therapist and has built a pretty successful practice here in Seattle over the years. I was surprised when he first told me he was going to use his degree to actually be a psychiatrist. He was a football player. Good enough to get a full ride to Blackford University back in the day. But apparently, he wasn’t good enough to go pro.
I remember my heart hurting for him back then, because being a pro ballplayer had always been his dream. I knew not making it to the pros killed him a little bit inside, but he handled it with remarkable grace, shrugging it off with a smile and then threw himself into his career.
My brother has always been upbeat and positive. He’s never let life get him down, no matter how hard it kicks him in the balls. Peter never fails to rebound with aplomb and move on to the next thing.
It’s something I’ve always admired about him. And maybe one of the things that make him such an outstanding therapist.
The waitress comes by the table and takes our order. She refills our wine glasses and departs with a smile and a glance that lingers a little too long. I notice that as she walks away, his eyes follow her for a moment before he turns back to find me grinning at him.
“You should get her number. She’s totally into you,” I tell him.
He chuckles softly. “Oh, so you’re a psychic now too, huh?”
I shrug. “Don’t need to be a psychic when you know how to read people,” I lecture him. “Something you should know in your chosen career, big brother.”
His grin is rueful, and he takes a drink of his wine to cover the flush in his cheeks. Peter hasn’t been with anybody since his last girlfriend, Marcy, broke his heart. After more than a year together, he found out she’d been cheating on him and he’d been devastated. Although, you never would have known it, given his perpetually upbeat demeanor.
But I know my brother and can see through his façade. I know when he’s hurting, even though he does a good job of hiding it from the world. It was about a year ago now and he’s mostly recovered, which is good to see. He’s talked about dating but hasn’t done anything about it just yet. So, it’s up to me to force the issue, it would seem.
“Seriously, Peter. Pull your head out of your ass,” I go on. “The way she looked into your eyes a little longer than necessary? That flirty smile of hers? That and the fact that I’ve never had a more attentive server in any restaurant, anywhere, anytime. She’s refilled our wine glasses like a billion times.”
“I think you’re imagining things.”
I give him a long, even look. I’ve always known exactly how to push his buttons and get him pointed in the direction I want him to go. Manipulating my brother has always been pretty easy. I feel somewhat bad for playing on his need to shelter, protect, and make me happy – but when it’s for a greater good, I’m perfectly fine with it.
The waitress comes by the table – again – to check on us and let us know our meals will be out shortly and I can tell Peter is going to let her walk away without doing anything. So, I decide to take the bull by the horns myself.
“Excuse me?”
She pulls her eyes away from my brother – albeit reluctantly – and turns, giving me a smile. I strain my brain for a second before I come up with her name. I’ve never been great about remembering names.
“Hi Tracy, I’m Felicity. And this is my brother, Dr. Peter Manson,” I start.
“Felicity,” he tries to interrupt, his cheeks practically neon red.
“He’s thirty-five years old, and a very successful psychiatrist here in Seattle,” I continue as if I hadn’t heard him. “He loves dogs, sports, music, books, and movies. He’s also very single.”
Tracy turns a shade of red that’s equal to my brother’s and a nervous giggle passes her lips.
“You’ll have to forgive my sister,” my brother stammers. “She doesn’t get out much, and her social skills are about on par with your average caveman with all the subtlety of a water buffalo hopped up on crystal meth.”
“At least I’m cute,” I retort.
Tracy laughs and then looks at me strangely. “I’m sorry to ask, I didn’t want to bother you,” she begins. “But are you Felicity Manson? The Felicity Manson who wrote Obsidian Fields?”
“One and the same,” Peter answers for me.
“Oh my god. I knew it! I’ve read your book three times already,” she squeals. “Your themes are so heavy, but so relatable. It really speaks to me on so many different levels.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it and I appreciate your support,” I manage to mutter.
Now it’s my turn to blush as the heat flares in my cheeks. I’m not such a big name that I’m recognized on the street. In fact, this is the first time anybody has ever recognized me, and I can’t meet her eyes. When I glance up and see my brother looking at me, he’s got a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on his face. He’s clearly enjoying my discomfort – something I’m going to have to flip the script on real quick here.
“Actually, I have your book in my locker in the back,” she bites her bottom lip and looks at me.
“Would you mind signing it for me?”
“Absolutely.”
I give her a smile as an idea comes to me in a flash. I reach into my purse and dig out one of Peter’s business cards, palming it as I pull out a pen. I quickly scrawl out my message on the back of the card and hand it over to her. Tracy looks down at it and the color rushes back into her cheeks as she casts a glance at Peter, then quickly looks away.
“That’s his personal cell number on the back,” I inform her. “Call him anytime. Day or night.”
Peter clears his throat and looks away as Tracy smiles. There’s an energy forming between them that’s palpable. The attraction is obviously very mutual, and both of them are grinning like schoolkids with a crush. It’s freaking adorable.
“I’ll do that,” she almost whispers. “I’ll – I’ll be right back with your book.”
Her face so red I fear it’ll burst into flames, she turns and hurries away. I turn and look at my brother, who’s just shaking his head.
“That was charming,” he chuckles.
“Effective too,” I counter. “She’ll call you tonight. I guarantee it.”
“You missed your calling as a relationship counselor,” he teases. “Or as a madame.”
I laugh. “I’m young. There’s still time for a second career.”
Tracy comes back to the table and I sign her book, which makes her squeal with delight. She turns to Peter and promises to call him tonight then hurries away again. I resist the urge to tell him I told him so. Even if I did. But the look on his face tells me he already knows and appreciates me not rubbing it in his face.
“What about you?” he prods. “When is it time for you to find yourself a man?”
I check my watch, then look back up at him. “Ten minutes from never work okay for you?”
He chuckles. “Seriously, Felicity. I want to see you happy.”
“And I can’t be happy without a man?” I shoot back and arch an eyebrow at him.
“Not what I’m saying,” he replies. “But we all need companionship.”
I take a sip of my wine. “I know. And at some point, I’ll be lucky enough to find somebody worthy of my time,” I shrug. “I haven’t found a person I deem worthy just yet.”
