Never, Never, Never Give In ~ Pt. 5
A behind the scenes post on seeing a goal to the end or die trying?
Welcome back and we are continuing our behind the scenes posts on getting my first book, Blackbird, published. Let’s go.
A month later, I kissed both my guys goodbye and took a flight to New York City.
Arriving at LaGuardia, I shoved and pushed my way through the terminal with the rest of the shovers and pushers and finally stepped out onto a soot-filled sidewalk where rows upon rows of cabs waited at the curb. One by one, people in front of me dove into those cabs, and soon, I did too.
Hurtling along at finger-nail chewing speeds, I wedged close to the door and peered out the grit-encrusted window at the approaching island with its coral-like growth of jagged topped buildings called skyscrapers, though they didn’t get near the sky. (Thank goodness).
I had been to the concrete forest in college when I toured the network newsrooms as a wanna-be cub reporter and in my twenties when one of my newsroom pals worked as an anchor for CBS news, but as the driver finally slowed and inched the cab into the heart of Manhattan, I found it as strange as before. All these high buildings in place of trees, all the streets in place of rivers, and all this cement in place of grassy meadows. It was a man-made garden: Outrageously expensive, loaded with stories of wild success and miserable failure, and nerve-jangling to the point of distraction.
Checking into my hotel, I rode the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor and stepped into a closet-sized room appointed in chrome and plush electric blue velvet.
Settling in, I changed into an outfit I hoped would be acceptable to Kim, who I imagined was a slick, sophisticated, model-like creature. I chose a longer blazer and matching skirt, both of a lovely silk-wool blend in a soft gray, and a blue and white silk blouse. Casual but professional. Low-heeled pumps.
Turning, I spotted the phone on top of a sleek, narrow topped desk. Crossing the room in two strides, I picked up the receiver.
Steve answered on the first ring, but the only sound was the bellowing cries of my little guy. “It’s been like this since you left,” Steve managed to say. “Not even Slovka can calm him down. Talk to him. Say something.”
Oh yeah, that’s a great idea. I can undoubtedly reason with a toddler. Still, I did my best while Spencer continued to wail. “Hey, Honey Bunny,” I said. “It’s okay. It’s all right—Mommy’s right here. You’re okay. You’re good.”
Sniffling on the line, there was a deep inhale and another round of screaming.
Outside, darkness descended over the city, and the lights sparked to life.
“It’s fine,” Steve was saying on the line. “I’ll get him in the car. Take a drive.”
“Or give him a bath?” I said. “Maybe get in with him? A little skin-on-skin contact? He likes to be held.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I sure hope you sell this damn book,” Steve said. “Call me later.”
We hung up, and I stood there listening to the background music of NYC, honking horns and wailing sirens. Inside my head played that mental chorus: Sell the book. Sell the book. Sell the book.
I had created and was raising a future citizen of a country and a world, but motherhood didn’t pay or offer benefits of any kind. Instead, I was expected to do this, too: Make money. Now.
It was screwy and upside down and wrong, yet this was the rabbit hole I had fallen into. I’d do this thing or die trying. But the second half of that thought stopped me. My father—who had died the year I turned nine—used to say: “I’ll be a millionaire or dead by the time I’m forty.” He had a heart attack and died when he was thirty-nine.
Going back to the mirror, I smoothed away lint and wrinkles in anticipation of my big meeting with Kim, but another part of me wanted to go home that minute and comfort my child. Once he was at peace again, I wanted to think more carefully about this whole “sell the book” mania. Most of all, I suppose I wanted to climb out of this rabbit hole I had thrown myself down before Spencer was born, but life doesn’t work that way. We all fall down a hole, and it’s our destiny to travel through to the end of the maze. Still, I shook that “die trying” thought out of my head because I was changing amid the whole process. Evolving. I would never leave Spencer as my father had left me, penniless and at the mercy of heart-hearted strangers. His life, and death, had taught me that money was one thing, but the duty to protect a child in my care was quite another. I would do my best here, and that would have to be good enough. I suppose I even accepted that if I failed and Steve was pissed enough to leave me, that would be fine, too.
This was a seismic shift in my thinking, but because time demanded I pay attention to the now, I had to let all that go. I pulled out a tube of lipstick, colored my lips, grabbed my room key, and headed to the door.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” Kim said. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you. I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe you are the person who wrote this book, this sad and heartbreaking and stunning book.”
We stood hugging and laughing and hugging a bit more in the hotel's shimmering chrome and glass lobby.
She was a tiny little thing in flats, hair wet from a recent shower, and wearing a casual outfit; Golf style skirt, a t-shirt, and a jean jacket. She had sounded young on the phone but looked all seventeen in person. I admit (though I’m not proud of it) that my heart took a slight dive. She was so young, and I didn’t know this was a business jam-packed with women like her. She, and her peers, were paid almost nothing and yet were a collective of devoted literary enthusiasts who endured the horrible pay and long hours out of the pure love of language and writers and books.
While we drank glasses of pinot and ate lettuce-wrapped smoked salmon and some cheesy thing, Kim shoved my worries aside by talking a blue streak about her plans. She and I were set to meet her team on Wednesday afternoon and then would pop in to meet the publisher. “You are going to love her. She’s super cool.”
I took notes in my Day-timer while Kim talked and saw that her meeting time at S&S gave me the needed time to pitch the book at the luncheon and then meet with the editors at Penguin and Crown.
“That’s perfect,” Kim said. “And you be sure to tell the agents you pitch and the editors that we are super serious about this book. I can’t say you’ll have an offer on Wednesday, but I think we can wrangle one by Friday. Tell people that.”
While she talked, Kim tucked her wet hair behind her ears. It was an endearing habit more than a necessity. And her confidence was contagious.
“You all set on your end? Have you got your pitches? What can I do to help?” Kim asked.
“All printed and in envelopes,” I said. “I find an agent by Monday or Tuesday at the latest.”
“Great. Perfect,” she said, a strand of wet hair curved along her cheek. She tucked it back quick. “Call me every step of the way. I want to know EVERYTHING.”
NYC is not just a vertical city; it’s a horizontal one, and getting anywhere took twice as long as I’d predicted. Elevators up and down. Subways. The tangle of the side streets and main ones. I clutched a map in my fist and oriented myself by street numbers, the sun's trajectory, and the park's barriers. But by the time I made it to the old world hotel where the luncheon was being held, I was still fifteen minutes late and drenched in sweat from the ordeal. How did people live here? I thought more than once. And no wonder there were so many people begging for change. A few more days in this place, and I’d be stone broke. Five bucks for a cup of lukewarm coffee? Eight for a bagel with cream cheese? (And the bonus of being yelled at by the clerk because I wasn’t fast enough making my order. “Hurry up, Lady! I don’t got all day here.”) Twelve for a cab that took me a mile and a half? Lunacy, I thought, shoving through the door and into the lobby of the hotel.
Thank goodness, a group of women had remained out front, ticking reservations off the signup sheet.
“Yes, yes, you’re fine, you’ve got plenty of time” a young woman said, handing over lunch and drink tickets (which I passed on. I would need to be sharp). She was an extravagant-looking woman in a form-fitting camel-colored dress wearing more makeup than an anchorwoman about to present the news, which was a shame because under all that foundation she had a lovely face and beautiful eyes. But that was something else I was noticing while running to keep pace. NYC was a place of intense extremes. I had passed a man pissing on the street and another getting into a stretch limo. I had seen a woman pushing a baby carriage overloaded with garbage and then another in a Chanel suit walking five pure-bred corgis on what seemed to be diamond-encrusted leashes. “You’re at table sixty-eight,” the woman continued.
“How many tables are there?” I asked.
“Oh, only a hundred,” she said and giggled. “Small crowd this year, but you’re lucky; your table is on the side and close. You’ll see the speakers at least.”
I nodded at this and stepped into a palatial ballroom with high boxed ceilings and chandeliers dripping crystals. The round linen-draped tables were filled with women like myself, dressed professionally and sitting at the tables with their oversized bags and raincoats tucked next to their chairs.
Finding my way to table sixty-eight, I sat down and smiled in greeting to the others already there. In a moment, an iceberg lettuce salad was set down by a fast-moving waiter, who also filled my water glass, and plunked down a whole-wheat roll on a side plate along with a pat of butter.
On an elevated stage, more tables had been arranged, and behind these sat a collective of agents with nameplates. Our quarry, I thought, but they weren’t terrifying or intimidating at all. They seemed bored or tired.
Little Hannelore Hahn, maybe five feet tall, stood at the podium looking precisely as I remembered. Her blonde hair was shaped into a bob, and her make-up was done to perfection. In a soft voice, with a hint of her German accent, Hahn spoke about the excellent work IWWG was doing with the United Nations and encouraged everyone to stay up to date with their annual dues.
I eased the salad aside and unloaded my notepad and a pen from my bag. I had already read up on the agents who would be there that day and had picked three that seemed to fit my category. I went down the list and saw that two were no-shows. I groaned inwardly at this news.
Starting over, I ticked down the list again and starred a few backups. One was an Indian woman working for the _____ Agency. I searched the stage and saw Anne up there in a pink suit. Dark hair. Young. Lovely. Sultry. She sipped her coffee and smiled politely while Hannalore talked.
Another agent that might work was a man named Thomas with the ____ Agency, but when I found him, he was scowling almost as if in a challenge. Gray-haired. Portly. Pissed.
I continued to work down the list and found Peter. Young. Chipper. New to the business and with the _____ Agency. He loved memoir, though he preferred literary fiction. I found him up there in an argyle sweater vest. Big smile. Warm eyes. He’d do.
Throughout the meal, which was a chicken breast next to a scoop of yellow rice and steamed carrots and beans, the agents introduced themselves one by one. After dessert was served (cheesecake swimming in jellied cherries), the agents were dispatched from the state and to smaller tables arranged around the perimeter of the room. Our job was to check our teeth, reapply lipstick, and rehearse our pitches while we stood in line for our picks. And waited. And waited. And waited.
The only agent I wanted to meet was the one everyone else wanted to meet, Rita _____, who had her own agency. Re-routing, I made it first to Anna. After thirty minutes of waiting (and listening) to the others pitch, I finally slid into a chair, shook Anna’s hand, and tugged out an envelope that included the first chapter of my book, the comparable’s list (books already published like mine), my bio, and the hotel phone number where I was staying. Then I made my spiel.
“Really?” Anna said, her tone languid and good-humored. “You have a deal then? That’s firm?”
I nodded, feeling a bit smug.
“I know it’s a big ask,” I said, sliding my envelope on the table between us, “but if you find it of interest, let me know.”
She tapped the envelope a few times with a well-manicured finger. “Hmmm,” she said, “I have to admit I’ve never had a pitch like this before. I suppose that’s quite an endorsement.” Then she tugged it closer. “I’ll do my best to read it tonight and get back to you.” Anne motioned at the growing pile of envelopes on the chair next to her. “Again, I’ll do my best.”
We shook hands, and I was up.
Peter’s line was now longer than Rita’s, so I took a shot on a shorter line and sat down with a woman with the brightest smile I’d ever seen. Long lashes. High cheekbones. She wore a white blazer and skirt, a bright orange blouse, and a pair of shimmering pantyhose. White pumps. She was a commercial agent named Carole. A real go-getter too. When I told her about the offer, she wanted to represent me—that minute.
“Well, um, maybe you should read my materials first,” I said.
“Don’t need to,” Carole said, waving me off. “Your word is good enough, and besides, why would you lie? Here’s my card. Where are you staying? When are your meetings? Who exactly are the editors? I should come too. I should be at your side.”
I thought I was aggressive. Carole made me look positively meek.
“I’m going to need you to read some of the materials first,” I said at last. “And as for the meetings, I’ve already set them up. I don’t want these editors to feel pushed.”
“Of course. Of course. Get it,” she said, changing course and tucking my envelope into her bag. “I’ll read it on the way back to my office and call you in a few hours. Good?”
Finally, with only about ten minutes left in the luncheon, I made it to Rita, a librarian type who wore a shrewd expression on her narrow face. Sharp eyes.
“Hmmm, well, that’s unusual,” Rita said and eyed the envelope I offered suspiciously.
A moment ago, I had the shiny Carole ready to take me on, no questions asked, and Anna, who had treated me with genuine interest, but for Rita—who honestly didn’t seem to believe any of what I was saying—I became like a performer spinning plates and jumping through fiery hoops. I blurted out the names of the editors who had the book and said that Kim felt sure I’d have an offer in a few days. “I’m meeting the publisher too,” I added.
“Well, those are all fine house and good editors, but I’m not sure I’ll have the time,” Rita said with a sniff but finally accepted my materials, slipping the envelope into her bag.
As she gathered a much smaller pile than Anna’s and hurried away, I sat in a daze and looked around. I had been so focused that I didn’t realize the afternoon was over and the ballroom empty. While the wait staff bussed the tables with the clink of glassware and the ting of silver, I pushed myself out of my chair, pulled on my jacket, and then hooked my bag over my shoulder. When I returned to the hotel, I had two calls—one from Carole and another from Rita.
On perspective:
I want to share this quote by Ocean Vuong:
“Competition, prizes and awards are part of a patriarchal construct that destroys love and creativity by creating and protecting a singular hierarchical commodification of quality that does not, ever, represent the myriad successful expressions of art and art making. If you must use that construct, you use it the way one uses public transport. Get on, then get off at your stop and find your people. Don’t live on the bus, and most importantly, don’t get trapped on it.”
I hope you feel you have found your people here at Flight School. I hope you understand what Vuong is teaching here, too, which is that the creation itself is of major importance and validity.
Standing in that NYC hotel room all those years ago and believing that I would be more valid or worthy once published, I wish someone would have taken me aside and told me this. But then again…would I have had the ears to hear? The heart to understand? Or the compassion to cut myself a bit of slack? Probably not…so I hope you can hear it now. You are not more worthy if you are published. Your worthiness is innate and unquestioned. Your presence and creations, a gift.
~ Jennifer, 🍎
Never, Never, Never Give In ~ Pt. 5
Jennifer - what a great post! I've been to New York, attended the New Music Seminar in Manhattan, tramped up and down the streets and elevators and jumped in and out of cabs to deliver a client's demo music to A&R Departments (after learning we needed endorsement from an Entertainment Lawyer) - a fascinating and funny story included in my memoir! I can absolutely relate to your experience and all the 'feels', not to mention 'how DO people live there?'
Though not yet ready for 'From Pitch to Publication', I'm thinking 'Scene vs. Exposition' might be where to begin.
Thanks again for your willingness to share what you have learned with us memoir writers. I'm learning and growing in Flight School!
Thank you Jennifer. Altogether fascinating, informative and meaningful. I’m so glad I signed up!