Never, Never, Never Give In ~ Pt. 7

On how we MUST struggle

A behind the scenes post on an editor who is too busy to read the book, an agent who agrees to rep me though she doesn’t care for my book, some thoughts on struggle and an open mic 🎤 prompt.

Welcome as we continue the process of selling my first book, Blackbird.

Stepping out of a cab in front of 225 Park Avenue South in Midtown, I paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk next to a planter where a few stems of former flowers bent over themselves. Cracked. Dead.

I was now at Crown, founded in 1933, in an area called the Flatiron District. As exciting as it was to be on this island, standing before another significant publishing house, I felt myself slipping into a funk. Ms. Wize’s butt-chewing had done what had been intended, and I was wounded. You throw your heart and soul into your creation, you weep and study and weep a little more, and you do your very best every step of the way (heck, if it weren’t for people like you, there would be no publishing industry), and still, you’re forced into this tiny little maze of rules. It was numbing and sad and what I call “stinkin’ thinkin’” which would lead to no good, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed time and quiet to reboot, but for now was trapped in this horn-honking-siren-screaming hell.

Before me, a sea of people hurried both ways. Briefcases swinging, eyes far ahead (or on their watches), legs on the go. I shoved a smile on my face, dashed through the speeding pedestrians, and pushed through the doors of Crown.

Moments later, I sat in the impressive office of my friend. She had been promoted since I knew her; the office was twice the size of my hotel room. Windows. Windows. Windows. And it seemed she was also one of the most overworked women in publishing. Her desk was like a mini-version of the buildings in this city; towers of paper. More of these towers were stacked on the sideboard behind her desk, the bookshelves along the back of her office, and over at a conference table presumably for editorial meetings. If this woman worked every hour of every day for the next year, she might get through the piles on her desk, but honestly, there was a decade of work here. And she looked terrible, too. Harried, peaked, pale, skinny. Her suit seemed to be on a hanger, not a woman. Short hair. Small eyes. Dark circles under those eyes. Shaking her hand was like shaking a cadaver's hand, her skin cold to the touch.

“I’m sorry,” she said, easing to sit behind her desk. She wore a beige suit with a long jacket and a shorter skirt, but both hung on knobby bones. She peered around at her feet as if she might have dropped something. “Oh, there it is,” she said and leaned over her knees. In a moment, she wiggled my shipping box from under her desk.

She thunked the box onto her lap and opened the flap. (That was promising, I thought, she at least opened the damn box at some point). She dejectedly flipped through a few pages and looked sorrowful. Then her eyes shifted around her office, and her expression morphed into fatigue.

“I’m buried here,” she said and then looked at me again. “I wish I could have a few more months.”

I sat in a leather chair beside her desk, legs crossed, and could feel only pity.

“Please, don’t worry about it,” I said, waving her apologies off. “If it doesn’t sell to Simon & Schuster, I’ll let you know.”

She sighed and nodded and closed the lid of the box. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll keep this then.”

Thankfully, she didn’t drop it on the floor and kick it under her desk. Instead, it was on her lap while we pushed through small talk. How did I like the city? Was I going to take in a play? Had I made it to any museums?

Fifteen minutes later, I extricated myself from the meeting and was back on the sidewalk of harried humans. Looking up at the tall building where my friend was certainly toiling at her paper stacks, I realized she had shown me something disturbing: Myself. While she served a different cause, we were both buried in paper and plans. It was one thing to write about my past, and to pull it into a book, and to sell that book…but what of the present? What joy could be found in the now?

Rather than take a cab, I tugged out my map and walked slowly back to my hotel. I should take in a show or make time for a museum. New York City wasn’t all bad. It couldn’t be.

Along the way, I spotted a payphone and stopped to make a collect call.

When he answered, Steve sounded far away. I cupped my hand over the receiver to block out the blaring of horns and sirens.

“How’s our guy?” I asked.

“He finally stopped crying, but he’s in a mood,” Steve said, voice tired. “He keeps hitting Slovka and me. Man, does he love you.”

Steve said this with wonderment, as if a child loving his mother was an oddity. But I wasn’t going to challenge him on the point. I was only going to savor the fact that I had that kind of connection to my child. Good. For a girl who had been dumped like trash by her own mother, and adopted into the home of a dying woman with schizophrenia…well…it was amazing I could love and be loved back. I was blessed.

“One more day,” I said.

“Thank God,” Steve said.

We hung up, and I continued toward the hotel. Once there, the concierge helped me secure a ticket and I went to an off-broadway production with Jeremy Irons, but I couldn’t tell you the show's name, only that it was well written and gave me the break I needed. Walking back to my hotel, I felt buoyed and looked toward the next day with optimism. Hopefully, I’d hear from Anna or Rita—I still needed an agent. And I would need to prepare for Simon & Schuster, too. I was sure I’d be drilled with marketing and promotion questions. And I would have to justify many of the editorial choices I had made. Of course, Kim hadn’t said any of this would be happening. She only told me to show up at two in the afternoon, just after lunch. And to bring my luggage so we could meet her publisher before I had to catch my place.

Up the elevator, I walked along the narrow hall to my room and let myself in.

The light on the phone beeped.

Sitting down on the bed, I pulled the phone off the desk and called into the voice messaging service. It was Rita and she wanted me to call her back, no matter the time.

I had just given her the whole book that afternoon, and she was calling? Already?

Though it was past ten, she picked up.

“Well, if you get an offer, I’ll take you on and help with the contracts,” she said, all business even at this hour.

“You will?” I said.

“Why not. But if they don’t make an offer, I won’t take it on. You need to rewrite the whole thing. It drags, and honestly, I don’t care for it.”

I blinked at the wall across the room. On the one hand, I was delighted. I needed an agent and now had one. On the other hand, she didn’t like my book. How did that work?

“Hello?” Rita said.

“I, ah, I don’t know what to say to that,” I said. “I can’t figure out if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“Probably both,” she said. “I’m just being honest here. It’s great you’ve got an editor excited. Good for you. But I doubt a whole house will get behind this. It needs too much work. What you have here is probably a fluke.”

Speaking in that way of hers, monotone to the point of robotic, it was like she stuck a knife into me and now twisted the blade. What was wrong with these people? I thought. Just being honest? Jesus-H-on-a-popsicle-stick, who needed enemies with friends like this?

I should have wished her goodnight and said no thank you, but I believed I needed an agent by tomorrow. It’s what Kim had asked, and I had done it. Sure, Rita didn’t like the book, but maybe that was a triviality? Perhaps it was like a lawyer representing a scum bag client…just part of the business? But this didn’t make me feel better. I was the scum bag in this analogy.

“Okay,” I said. “That’s good, I guess. I’ll let you know how the meeting goes.”’

“Two o’clock, right?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Great. Tell them I’ll rep you and call me after. I’ll be here.”

She hung up, but I remained staring, phone in hand.

Was my book that bad? Had I miscalculated completely? I still hadn’t heard from the Forest for the Trees group; maybe if I had, they would have said the same thing and I could have done another draft. Oh hell, I thought. I should have waited. I should have worked harder. The book sucks.

A tone lifted through the phone and soon became a beep. The sounds startled me back to the room.

I hung the phone in the rocker—the clatter of plastic on plastic, and went to bed. But only lay there in the dark replaying the conversation. I doubt a whole house will get behind this and it’s probably a fluke.

(Go directly to the next post on the Blackbird journey now).

Your Turn:

They say that all good stories have such profound moments of complication and challenge that the hero must despair. Why? Well, because story mirrors life, and we learn from watching others overcoming struggles. It’s a primary tenant of evolution. Sure, it’s hard, but we keep going. Sometimes, I wonder if all of life comes down to this simple truth: We must struggle!

What are we struggling with most right now? Many would say it’s the divisive nature of our world, politics, climate change, courts that don’t make rulings we agree with, our spouse, our level of success, our looks, our weight, Covid. But I think the struggle of all struggles right now is with thought. Do we believe our dark thoughts and the negative, even hostile judgments of others, or are we here to learn how to trust in something higher than ourselves and follow the path of light?

This is, I believe, the question of our time and the basis of every journey a human being takes. In story, you must consider the movements of your mind and see which direction your character is going. Yes, even in a memoir.

The mind is like still water until someone drops a thought into it. Then the reaction-rings of more thought ripple outward, overlapping and criss-crossing. Stillness gone.

🎤 I’ll be doing some teaching on antagonistic forces very soon and will break this open down, but for now, I offer this challenge question: What was a moment in your life when you absolutely, irrevocably believed something, and then you reversed that thinking by 180 degrees?

Post in the comment box.

~ 🍎, Jennifer