Some Lucky Woman

by Carmen DeSousa

  Even though I could barely keep my eyes open, I looked up at her. “It’s tradition. I can’t break tradition.”

  “Who says you have to go the same day that you drop off your manuscript with your editor?”

  I attempted a smile, but it took too much energy, so I just grunted.

  “I thought you made the rules?” she continued.

  I rolled my shoulders and rested my head against the wall. “You’re so fresh. Who raised you again?”

  “Some lucky woman who was fortunate to have me as her charge so I could take care of her once I grew up.”

  “True. Very true. I am some lucky woman, all right.” And I was. I may have been unlucky in love, but I had my son, Angela, and now I had J’Austen.” I yawned. “Maybe just a little nap. Because we don’t have much time. As soon as you finish reading it, I’m sending that baby around.”

  “Really, you’re going to submit it to an agent?”

  “Yep!”

  “And are you still planning to submit it with your real name?”

  “Yep. I want the world to know that Jana Embers doesn’t need a man.”

  Part Two

  “Everything worth having costs something, and the price of true love is self-knowledge.”

  – Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Chapter 13 – I Got This!

  Heedless of a paper cut, I tore into the envelope with my real name, Jana Embers, neatly printed across the front. My handwriting, of course. All manuscript submissions sent via post required that a self-addressed stamped envelope accompany the query. After all, if I took the time to physically send my manuscript to a literary agent, the last thing I wanted was an email back, right?

  Wrong! I’d love an email. A phone call would be wonderful. Hell, a text would suffice.

  As the neighborhood advocate for recycling, I wasn’t even sure I was interested in an agency that didn’t accept electronic queries, though, so I’d only sent out a handful of submissions via snail mail.

  But then I thought … What if no one sent manuscript queries to the agency via post? How much more professional would I look if I took the time to print off and mail a one-page query letter, a three-page synopsis, and the first three chapters of my manuscript?

  Dedicated, I decided. I’d look like an author who was willing to go the extra mile when it came to her career choice, which I was.

  Palms sweaty and jaw clenched, my eyes darted across the page, which I knew immediately from the one short paragraph would be a rejection.

  “Blah! Blah! Blah!” I grumbled as I read the few words, then crumpled up the single sheet of paper and made a perfect bank shot of the wad, right off my writing desk into a mesh trash can. “Two points!” I cheered, jolting my cat, Jane Austen, whom I lovingly referred to as J’Austen, from her slumber.

  The agent hadn’t even taken the time to use my name in the salutation “Dear Author” as she wished me success. Forget the sugarcoated rejections, I wanted someone who was willing to give me the facts straight so I could write a better novel.

  “Meh!” I grumbled, then smiled down at my calico. “Not my first rejection, baby kitty, and I’m sure it won’t be my last. Never give up the dream, right?”

  J’Austen stared at me through one amber eye, apparently not pleased with my outbursts and my attempt to talk to her. Since we lived alone, she was my sounding board. But she was a terrible conversationalist and an even worse listener than my ex-husband when she wanted to take a nap.

  “Oh, stop being such a grouch,” I reprimanded her. “My books pay for that fancy cat food you love so much. We may be doing fine with my self-published books, but imagine the cat towers and snacks we could afford if my book got picked up by a major publisher?”

  J’Austen responded with a wide yawn, reminding me of a lion on Animal Planet, then rolled over on her back, stretching her body out beneath a ray of sunlight streaming through the screen room. Even a lizard couldn’t vie for her attention when it was time for her mid-morning nap.

  Not bothered by the rejection letter or my cat’s lack of enthusiasm at my great shot and career goals, I headed for my pool. I had a date with my new whitewater kayak today. Kayaking had become my favorite pastime. Favorite pastime in the daylight hours, that is. But I wanted to step up my paddling a notch.

  I’d taught myself to kayak on the smooth flat waters in Florida, but I was ready for a new challenge. The instructor at the kayak store had been clear, though: “If you can’t master the kayak roll, you have no business in whitewater,” I mocked his California surfer dude accent.

  But it’s what I wanted to do. For me. I wanted to feel the spray of cool water in my face. I wanted to experience the rush of conquering the rapids. I wanted to feel alive. I had proven to myself that I could make it on my own, that I could get my son through high school and off to college, that I could make it as an author.

  Now, if I could conquer my fear of being upside down in my kayak and my largest challenge: selling my new book to an agent. Oddly enough, I experienced almost the exact same anxiety every time I opened a letter or email from an agent as I did when I was suspended upside down inside my kayak.

  In either situation, I couldn’t breathe.

  My calico stretched her neck upward as I walked past her, so I offered her a scratch between the ears as I muttered, “We can do it, can’t we, J’Austen?” My loyal, even if grumpy from time to time, writing partner indulged me by meowing her assent, then hopped up and trotted to her cotton towel on the lounge chair, obviously assuming that my sudden eruption hadn’t signaled that her laid-back world was coming to an end today.

  The fact of the matter was I was doing well as a self-published author. But, man, oh man, I wanted an agent. Marketing and all the other tasks associated with actually selling my books monopolized so much of my day that often there wasn’t enough time to write, let alone do the activities I now loved, like kayaking, which fed my mind with more ideas to write about.

  Determined now, I picked up the thirty-seven-pound river-running kayak and lowered it into the pool, careful not to disturb J’Austen any more than I already had. She hated when I did this, but I had to do it. I had to learn.

  Today was the day! I avowed silently.

  The trainer at the outdoor store had taught me everything there was to know about rolling a kayak. I was just scared. I was afraid of drowning.

  Something like I’d felt the day I’d kicked out my unfaithful husband two years ago, leaving my son and me with barely enough money to eat and pay the utilities. Thankfully, I’d gotten the house in the divorce, and since I hadn’t worked outside the home during our fifteen-year marriage, he had to pay the mortgage, and child support for a few more years, which of course wasn’t enough to keep the lights on and feed a growing teenager.

  At that time, I’d been thirty-four with no résumé and no idea how I would keep the house running. My son and I had needed water to bathe and to eat something other than coffee and English muffins so I’d had to find a way to make money.

  Although wonderful lying ex-hubby had called me a MILF during more than one heated roll in the sack, I figured finding a sugar daddy was out of the question. I’d still looked okay. I’d always kept my five-five frame in shape, and my dark chestnut hair had very little gray. Even my hazel eyes usually attracted a second glance from many men. Of course, those traits were compliments of genetics, so I couldn’t really take too much credit, and I couldn’t make money off the fact that I was still in decent shape — not legally anyway — so I’d decided to do the only things I loved: read and write.

  Well, other than college, I’d never written anything, but I’d read enough novels in my day to know what women wanted in a book boyfriend, so I started to write sappy romance stories. Even though my prince charming — and every other man I’d dated since my divorce — had turned out to be a frog, I took pleasure in writing the heroes who didn’t. And surprisingly, I was good at it. I started making enough money that I could go out and enjoy my li
fe, finally be adventurous.

  As fate would have it, while I was having fun in my new career as an author, my ex-husband, Dick Embers the car salesman, wasn’t living life as the free spirit he’d wanted to be. Instead, he was raising a new baby with Miss Floozy. Ironic that he traded me in for a newer model, as though I were an outdated used car.

  I wasn’t being crass, I swear. That’s my ex’s name. He liked to go by Dick instead of Richard, so that he could say that his … umm … Well, most people could come up with plenty of racy comments, even without him saying his name as though he were James Bond. Embers, Dick Embers. Ugh!

  A dozen or so crummy dates later, I realized I didn’t need a man. A perfectly sized and shaped device and writing about the perfect hero would more than suffice. My cat certainly didn’t need a tomcat, so why did I need a man who acted like a wild feline? The answer was simple: I didn’t.

  Not that I hadn’t been devastated by my husband’s betrayal, I was. At first. Devastated, furious, angry, repulsed, vindictive, bitter … as any woman who’d poured her life into a marriage would be. I even went a little Carrie Underwood on his truck. Thankfully, my ex hadn’t pressed charges.

  But then I realized, other than sex, we had nothing in common. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find anything that we liked to do together. And he hadn’t bothered to try to find something. My ex hadn’t been interested in anything other than working and playing golf. Oh, and sex. Our marriage had started after we’d had unprotected sex, then ended because of unprotected sex.

  But that was two years ago. My life was so much better now. Now I was an author who wasn’t afraid to be adventurous indoors — and outdoors. I ate what I wanted, when I wanted. Took long baths, walked around in a T-shirt and ponytail 24-7. Oh, and I owned plenty of toys — all sorts — in different shapes and sizes. From the kind stowed away in my nightstand, to the kind I’d used to fill the second vehicle parking space in my garage. I had a motorcycle, hybrid bike, and a Jet Ski. But my favorite toy — umm … second favorite toy — was my kayak. Nothing relaxed me as much as paddling away from land and finding a secret paradise that no one other than persons operating non-motorized crafts could find.

  And now, I was going to learn how to roll this baby so I could go on the whitewater kayak trip in North Carolina that I’d already paid for. I’d been on plenty of large rafts and individual kayak rafts, but I wanted more … needed more.

  Paddle in hand, I situated myself inside my sleek new Dagger, snapped the skirt into place, then paddled until I was in the dead-center of the pool. Thankfully, I had a large pool. My ex-husband had always wanted the best. Even a better woman. Well, I wanted better too — a better life — and I was determined to find it. Without a man.

  Sucking in a final breath, I slowly leaned forward and dunked my head to the side of the kayak until it flipped over.

  As every other time, I immediately started to panic. Squeezing my eyes shut, I worked at relaxing my mind, willing myself not to lose it again.

  Not today, I thought. I will never panic again.

  I struggled to lift my head toward the surface, flicking my hip to flip the kayak while applying force with the paddle.

  I will not pop out. Not today. If I exit the boat and try to swim, I will put myself in danger, I reminded myself what the trainer had repeatedly warned. I’m not in danger. I can handle anything.

  “Mwraaawwwww … .” J’Austen’s woeful wail came from the surface. She hated this more than I did, and I hated putting her through the stressful situation.

  Exhausted and out of breath, I popped out and dragged the boat to the shallow end. “Dammit, Jana!” I smacked the surface of the water with the paddle. “What would you have done on a Class IV river? Got your foot stuck in a rock, that’s what! And then you would have drowned for real!”

  “Mwraaawwwww …” my kitty cried again, clearly not understanding why I wanted to torture myself and, by extension, her. She wouldn’t come to the edge where I could reach her and convince her that I was okay. Instead, she flattened her belly on the concrete, ears down, eyes wide. I could only imagine what she thought the bright red beast was that held me under the water.

  “I’m okay, baby kitty. I thought you were taking a nap.”

  Evidently hearing that I was okay through my tone, she paced around the pool, obviously not pleased that I hadn’t given up on this crazy venture.

  To me, calm-water kayaking was like my writing. I enjoyed it and I’d done well, but I hadn’t made it. Sure, authors and readers in the Indie world knew me, but who knew I sat right beside Nicholas Sparks on the bestseller list? No one other than people who looked through my images on Twitter. Of course, I took a screenshot.

  And I wanted everyone to know.

  I wanted the same thrill from my books that I got from kayaking. But I wanted more. I wanted whitewater. I wanted the rush. I wanted an agent to represent my latest book so I could share my love with as many readers as possible.

  According to my beta readers, my new book, You Don’t Need a Man, was the best yet. Why? Because I’d finally told the truth. I stopped writing about Mr. Someday Right, and wrote about how much fun I was having being single. Yeah, I still wanted to meet my knight in shining armor and live happily ever after, but then I thought, Why not have fun while I’m looking?

  My friends screamed when I didn’t publish it, as I’d done the rest of my novels under my pseudonym. But this book was different. This one I wanted to publish under my real name, and I was determined to wait for an agent who wanted to represent it. Not because I needed the money, but because I wanted as many women as possible to read it. I wanted to show the world: I got this! And you can too.

  I was still writing my spicy romantic-suspense novels to pay the bills, but this book would be my Driving Ms. Daisy, rather, my Eat, Pray, Love. This book would launch my career and, hopefully, encourage women everywhere.

  I would show all the women in the world that I didn’t need a man, and neither did they. I planned to make my own happily ever after.

  Ignoring the cries from my beloved cat, I crawled back in my kayak and positioned myself in the center of the pool again. I already wrote the book, so now I planned to live it.

  As my trainer had demonstrated a hundred times, I leaned forward and kept my head down, then leaned to the right. Within seconds, I was upside down again.

  Only this time, something was different … I didn’t panic. I wasn’t going to drown. I could come out whenever I wanted. But my kayak was my safe place. I wanted to stay inside it.

  I’m just paddling upside down, I thought. It’s fun to be under the water. It’s peaceful and quiet. I was going to do this today! Nothing would ever hold me back from what I wanted again. I’m just paddling upside down, I reminded myself. And then it hit me …

  I’m just paddling upside down.

  That’s it!

  I swept my paddle downward while thrusting my hip forward and upward and, all of a sudden, I was upright.

  “I’m upright!” Tears burst to my eyes. “I did it, J’Austen!”

  I dunked my head to the side and rolled the kayak again, and again, and again. I’d never be afraid of drowning again.

  The next time I came up, I lifted the paddle high over my head in triumph and announced at the top of my lungs, “I got this!”

  Chapter 14 – Three Years and Thirty-One Days Later

  Day One, I clumsily typed with my left hand in my new online journal. I was determined to track the progress of my health and writing.

  J’Austen stared up at me with those disapproving golden eyes of hers. It was as though she could read my mind sometimes. Or maybe she was just an extension of my own subconscious since we spent so much time together.

  “Okay,” I spoke aloud for my cat’s benefit as I pecked out the note in the journal, “it’s actually Day Thirty-One.”

  But really, it’s best that I start here as the last month was rather pitiful. For the last thirty days, I’d done not
hing but whine and cry about how pathetic my life was, ate anything in the house that didn’t require two hands to prepare, gained about ten pounds, and generally just moped around, tapping on my iPhone.

  Word count on my Work in Progress: ZERO! I added to the journal, then decided to log out until later in the evening, after my physical therapy appointment.

  I signed into Facebook, deciding to chat a bit before my cousin arrived, but then sighed as I read a comment from one of my favorite aspiring author friends. I knew they were just trying to be helpful, but I was tired of hearing how they or someone they knew got through their injury, or how they’d write if they didn’t have the use of their hands.

  Yes, I have the Dragon app, I stabbed at the keys with my left hand. But it’s hard to be creative when you have to speak the words. :)

  I added the smiley face, even though I wanted to add an angry face, since I’d written those exact words about a hundred times. I shouldn’t have told my readers and author friends about my rotator cuff surgery. But if I hadn’t, they’d be looking for the next book in one of my three ongoing collections, and I just couldn’t find the words via an app! I was a pantser. The words flew from my fingers as they came to my head. I simply couldn’t speak them. I could barely even speak ideas for a storyline.

  My physician was the best in the area, the surgeon to three major league baseball teams in Tampa Bay. “Second worst case I’ve seen in thirty years,” he’d said. With a smile on his face!

  Aren’t I the lucky one? Why couldn’t I have those odds playing the lottery? Based on his apparent excitement over my unusual case, I was certain that I’d find my story in a medical journal someday, detailing how he’d cured me. I had a good mind not to get better just to mess up his future book deal. I mean, seriously, why should he get a book deal off my injury?

  “The sad thing is … I should be ecstatic, huh, J’Austen?” My calico peered up at me again, then smacked her lips together, letting me know that she was bored of this conversation. Yeah, she was tired of my whining too, especially since I should be happy. After all, I sold my book, even got a movie deal. I’d gotten my wish, conquered my fears.