by Julie Wright
The receptionist spoke into his earpiece. I heard him say Jen’s name and then say mine as if my name was worth noting. I wasn’t just Jen’s tagalong. Before we even had a chance to sit, a heavy wooden door swung open and a dark-haired woman swept out with her arms open in greeting.
“Jen! It’s so good to see you.” They shook hands.
Jen stepped to the side. “Melissa, I’d like to introduce you to Charlotte Kingsley. Charlotte, this is Melissa Norwood, head editor of Mirror Press.
Melissa shook my hand. Her hand was cool, her grip confident. I wasn’t sure my fingers remembered to grip back. Everything seemed to be happening so fast. An agent and an editor? All in one day?
I owed my fairy godmother big time for what she’d managed to pull off for me in spite of all the grumbling I did about her. But maybe my dreams were getting ahead of themselves. Just because an agent and an editor stood in the same room I occupied didn’t mean anything. Better not count my glass slippers just yet. No offers had been made. No promises given. It almost felt like the beginning of a joke: an author, an agent, and an editor are in the same room together . . .
“It’s nice to meet you, Melissa.” My voice didn’t crack, squeak, or quaver. I could do this.
Melissa led us through the heavy wooden door, down another hall, and into a boardroom. Bookshelves full of books lined the walls on one side, and windows looking out over the city lined the other. Several titles on the shelves were books I’d read and loved. Mirror Press might not have been one of the big New York players of publishing, but they knew what they were doing and had a level of respectability that made them hard to ignore. Melissa motioned for me to take a seat in one of the plush chairs tucked into the polished wood table.
“Can we get you anything?” she asked. “Water? Coffee? Soda? Are you hungry?”
Just the mention of possible food or beverage made my stomach churn. “No, thank you. I’m fine.” I said this while sitting in a chair that was every bit as plush and comfortable as it looked. I would’ve actually written at a desk rather than at my couch if a chair this comfortable had existed in my apartment.
Jen took the chair next to mine, a physical reminder that she was with me—on my side. Melissa took the chair across from us.
“Well then, let’s get down to books.”
It was certainly a different take on the phrase let’s get down to business that was said at Frankly Eyewear at least a dozen times a day. It made me smile. These were my people.
Melissa had a file open in front of her, with several sheets of paper fanned out over it. “At an expo, Jen and I happened to be seated at the same table for dinner, and she told me she had read the most amazing book by a new, up-and-coming author.”
Up-and-coming. Jen called me up-and-coming.
Melissa paused, clearly knowing the power of those words. “She told me all about this book and how it could be life changing for a lot of people if it was marketed properly and given the exposure it deserved. Obviously, she had me intrigued, so I asked her to send it.” At this point, Melissa sighed and closed her eyes as if reliving the joy of the finest food she’d ever tasted. “What a read! I called Jen back and said I had to have it!”
Was someone sucking the oxygen out of the room? Why couldn’t I get air in my lungs?
“When we discussed potential marketing for the book, we came to a small snag.” Melissa squinted her eyes and tilted her head, with her mouth twisted in that way a person does when offering a strange sort of sympathy.
Someone definitely sucked all the oxygen out of the room. What did a snag mean?
“You have an idea that’s fantastic, and you’ve executed it perfectly. But what do you know about image and brand?” Melissa asked.
“Image?” I had to repeat her word, had to clarify. Lack of oxygen made it hard to think.
Melissa smiled, the indulgent sort of smile that one might give a small, adorable child when handing them a sucker. “Yes. Image. A certain sort of personality needs to accompany a work like this. Our marketing department scoured your online activity and aren’t sure you’re up to the task.”
“What makes you think I’m not up to the task?”
She took a deep breath, but it was just for show. She was clearly prepared to say whatever she felt needed to be said to me.
“You wrote a book that exudes confidence and authority. I applaud your very real talent. You did a spectacular job.”
“Thank you?” I hated myself for the question in my voice.
“The problem is that your social media tells the story of an insecure woman who requires validation.”
Her comment made me hate the question in my voice even more. “I’m a writer. The only writer I know of who can tell you that they don’t require validation is the one who’s lying to you.”
Melissa laughed. Laughed but didn’t back down. “And the other concern is that the woman in my presence right now is not the same woman presented online. Your hair isn’t in a halfhearted ponytail but a bun that was carefully planned to look messy with your red curls but that was likely scolded quite severely with sprays and gels into behaving. You’re not wearing comfortable sweats or other loungewear but an outfit that is both tasteful and powerful. I am prepared to offer you a very nice deal—a deal that also comes with a catch.”
“Catch?” Was this where they revealed that Melissa was a faker-name and she was really Rumpelstiltskin’s sister, the sister that expected me to hand over my firstborn unless I could guess her real name? I shot a look at Jen in an effort to remind myself that she was on my side.
“Your book is titled The Cinderella Fiction, but you’re living the life of a swamp witch. That can’t continue if you want to see this book published.”
“Excuse me?” Did she call me a swamp witch? To my face?
Jen must have gauged my reaction because she jumped into the conversation. “That’s not an insult.”
I gave her a glare that demanded she explain how she’d figured that.
“It’s a reference to one of your chapters, where you specifically mention that people don’t have to live in palaces, but neither does that mean they should be living in the mud under trees.”
“And you think the real life—emphasis on real here—I’ve been posting online is akin to the lifestyle of the swamped and cursed?”
Melissa laughed again, as if we were all merely telling jokes as friends and I wasn’t on the receiving end of her insults. “Please understand I’m coming from a marketing perspective. You can have a book that is fantastic but released with a small print run that ends up mostly remaindered and sold in bulk bins in dollar stores but have the gratification of knowing your name is on the cover; or you can have your words read widely and be available in every bookstore and library from here to the West Coast.”
“And you think my Instagram pictures are so plagued that my book wouldn’t be read from here to the West Coast?” She was just offending me now.
“I do. If we’re going to publish this book, we’re going to need it to have a different face.”
Chapter Eight
“The ambiguity of ‘once upon a time’ really just means the storyteller is completely unreliable. If they can’t pinpoint a date to be fact-checked, then the event probably never happened.”
—Charlotte Kingsley, The Cinderella Fiction
(The “Honesty” Chapter)
“Seriously?” Were they filming me on some crazy reality show? “What? Like hire someone to pretend they wrote my book so they can be the face?”
“No. Of course not. You will still be the author of your book, but . . . It’s a book that empowers people to be their best selves.”
“Right.” We could at least agree on that.
“But people don’t want the sort of life advice you’re offering from someone who displays pictures of clothing finds with thrift store
tags on them. And they certainly aren’t going to pay the cover price for that kind of life advice. Cinderella didn’t get her dress from a thrift store.”
I frowned. “So what are you saying here?”
“We’re asking you to be your best self.”
If a frown could go deeper than the Mariana Trench, mine did at that moment. I’d kind of thought I was always, or usually anyway, my best self. “And that means?”
“We have a publicity firm that we work with frequently. The self-help business often requires a little help itself, and a good publicity firm offers that for our authors. If we choose to purchase this manuscript, we need you to be willing to put the kind of effort into it that we’re willing to put into it.”
She slid a sheet of paper across the table to me. “I am not here to insult you,” Melissa said, even though subtle insults still counted as insults. “That’s the reason Jen and I have discussed extensively all the ways in which you will be compensated. Because I am prepared to make an incredible preemptive offer on the purchase of your book, Jen has allowed us to have this meeting.”
I looked at the paper and counted the commas. Commas. As in more than one. I had never seen two commas placed in a string of numbers on anything that had to do with money that would come to me. Those kinds of numbers existed in math problems and in hypotheticals for other things but never as a possibility for an upcoming bank deposit. This was the deal. This was the moment I’d dreamed about since Mrs. Brown’s creative writing unit in seventh grade.
“Of course,” Melissa said, “this is for North American rights only. Jen has plans for selling foreign rights. She’s a shrewd agent. She’s negotiated a good contract. She’s told me about your fortitude and tenacity in continuing to submit and improve your writing. She wouldn’t settle for anything less than the best for you.”
Tenacity. Both Jen and Melissa had used that word when describing me. And I hated how much I liked hearing it. The work to get to this point had been hard. The struggle had been very real. But now, here I was. What did being here mean? The moment had been imagined a million times, but it had been imagined differently. I had never anticipated being made to feel validated and invalidated at the same time when offered a publishing contract. I looked down at the numbers and commas that were being offered to me as an advance for the words that I had written.
Those numbers meant I could quit my job at Frankly Eyewear and focus solely on my writing. Those numbers meant I could take a trip to Europe and take Kat with me. If things with Anders worked out, maybe I’d take him too. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. A million questions swam through my head, fighting for attention, demanding to be recognized, and making it impossible for me to actually ask any of them.
Melissa fell silent, clearly placing the ball in my court and waiting to see what I would do with it.
Jen uncapped a silver pen and laid it out over the papers. “This is the door. You’ve been tunneling yourself out of your own creative prison for a long time now. But this is the door to everything you’ve wanted. All you have to do is open it.”
She would have to use my own metaphor against me.
By signing the paper, I would establish myself as a legitimate writer.
How much could a social media makeover hurt? Unless . . . “Who’s paying the publicist?” I asked.
Melissa smiled. “I love that you’re looking at all the angles. You’ll be footing the bill for the publicist. They will be working for you, but don’t worry. Although the public relations firm we’re referring you to isn’t cheap, they are excellent in a way that almost guarantees you’ll earn out your advance before Christmas.”
“Almost?”
“The only thing that is an absolute guarantee is that nothing is a guarantee.” Her eyes dropped to the still unsigned papers.
Mine did as well, providing me a view of the numbers and commas.
I picked up the pen and signed.
There were congratulations, smiles, and celebrations to be had all around.
I felt . . . well, I knew I was happy. After all, this was the moment so long waited for, dreamed about, wept over, worked toward. But knowing you’re happy and feeling happy are apparently not the same thing. It’s just that it all came about in a way that left me doubting myself. I’d never envisioned this moment being tainted by the knowledge that my book was sellable as is, but that I wasn’t. And I’d never envisioned my first contract to be for a nonfiction book.
My moment of triumph was supposed to come from a work of my heart—not a work born of frustration.
But there was still celebration to be had, so I joined because it was a beginning. It was my beginning. Melissa and Jen discussed timelines, because Melissa planned on having advanced reader copies of the book available by several book expos scheduled for the beginning of summer. They cast several glances at me and waited for me to nod in agreement to the dates before they continued on.
I honestly could not recall one of the dates mentioned. Was it for a photo shoot? I couldn’t remember. By the time we shook hands to say goodbye, I wondered if notes should have been taken. Was there a secretary who would send me the minutes of the meeting? Would someone think to give me a CliffsNotes version of all that had transpired?
Instead of taking me to the hotel to drop off my suitcase or to have a few minutes to text Anders and Kat, Jen took me straight to the public relations firm.
Outside the building that stretched farther into the sky than any of Jack’s beanstalks, I gripped the handle of my bought-secondhand rolling luggage and stared at the fading-into-the-distance limo and wished I was still on it.
I didn’t mind when my sister did movie-makeover moments with me. I could wash those off, brush them out, step away from the frivolous. Melissa and Jen acted as if they’d anticipated me embracing whatever new look this agency handed me. I glanced at the business card. HNT Media Group. Somewhere inside the fortress of a building was this media group, and they would tell me all the things that were wrong with me. And I had signed papers declaring I would agree with them.
Jen looked back, only just realizing that I hadn’t followed along behind her. “Ready?”
“Let’s do this.” I smiled, worrying that this smile would be the first of many lies I would have to tell about myself. Be positive! A social media makeover didn’t mean lying about me any more than makeup meant lying. A little lipstick and mascara enhanced what was already there.
That settled it.
I fell into step alongside my agent and went to get the eyebrows of my social media plucked.
I don’t know what I expected from a PR firm. Maybe some castle-like façade with a waterfall cascading from somewhere out of view. All things considered, HNT Media Group was minimalistic enough to make anyone not already in the know wonder what the company did. The vinyl sans serif font displaying the company name could have marked the doors of any place, from a janitor supply company to a secret branch of the government.
Jen glanced at me as she reached for the handle. “Hey! Don’t look so nervous. They already have your file, and they’re expecting us. They’ll be guiding this whole meeting. Besides, I’ll be here with you through all of it, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
Her declaration of solidarity offered little in the way of comfort. What did it mean that they already had a file on me? What could possibly exist in such a file? Maybe a PR agency really was like a secret branch of the government.
Before I could ask Jen more questions, we were already in the reception area, where a man and woman who looked to be my age sat behind a granite counter. Before Jen could do much more than smile a greeting, the woman pointed down the hall to the right and said, “She’s already waiting on you, Jen.”
“First name basis with the PR mafia?” I whispered as we made our way unescorted down the hall.
She laughed. “Mafia?”
“They have a file on me.”
“They’d better, or they won’t be worth the money you’ll be spending on them. And we’re on a first-name basis because they help several of my clients. They’re the best at what they do.”
Jen knocked but entered the room before being invited, since we’d already been told they were waiting for us.
Inside the big-enough-to-be-impressive and empty-enough-to-drive-home-the-minimalistic-theme room, a woman with sleek black hair sat behind a desk. Her eyes didn’t so much as flicker up to acknowledge our entrance. Her thickly mascara-ed eyes stayed trained on the blonde, curly-haired woman sitting in front of the desk. The blonde tapped her foot impatiently.
“I’m not going to apologize,” the blonde said, in a tone that left little doubt of her sincerity. If she owed someone an apology, they were never going to receive it. Her accent seemed southern; though, from the little she’d said, I couldn’t pinpoint what state she might have been from.
“Lillian . . .” The dark-haired woman said, her tone reasonable and calm.
“Don’t you Lillian me. It isn’t my job to care if a small group of people turn a joke into a political opinion.”
“But it is my job to care,” the woman said. “We’ve told you that getting political on social media could be damaging to your career.”
Lillian’s foot stopped tapping as she sat up and scooted to the edge of her seat. “I didn’t get political. Besides, the royalty checks that keep coming and keep getting bigger say you’re wrong.”
“Can you talk some sense into her, Jen?” the dark-haired woman asked my agent.
Lillian turned in her seat and moved to her feet when she saw Jen. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She crossed the room to give Jen a hug. It was hard not to notice the contrast in our appearances. This woman was fair-skinned to my pale, freckled face; blonde hair to my red; and slightly heavier than my fairly average-sized frame.
Our outfits were similarly styled—basic slacks paired with a tunic that flowed whimsically around the waist and hips, but their effect was decidedly different. Her top was a bold red, not the neutral gray I wore. She’d paired her black dress pants with red heels so glossy they could have been used for mirrors. Based on the ruby shine of the woman’s footwear, the Wicked Witch of the West might have mistaken this woman for the person who’d dropped a house on her sister and then stolen the family shoes. I wore dull black flats.
