Honestly, I didn’t expect to hear from her. Not for a while at least.
Sighing, I set aside my phone and then went to pour a cup of coffee. I was ready to suffer through it black—that’s how badly I needed caffeine. My cell rang and I jumped to answer it, thinking it might’ve been Annie. But it wasn’t. It was my agent.
“Hi, Alex.”
“I didn’t expect you to answer,” she said. “I thought you were still on vacation.”
“Er—cut the vacation trip short. What’s up?”
She paused a moment, and I felt a sense of dread.
“What is it?” I demanded. “Just tell me.”
“No one bid on your book.”
“No one?” I repeated.
“Correct.”
“Did anyone tell you why?”
Alex paused before replying. “They didn’t like your heroine.”
“You’re not supposed to like the heroine,” I explained. “She’s a bitch. Until the end when she has her redeemable moment, and you understand the way she is.”
“Well, apparently her come-to-Jesus moment happens too late. And by the end, no one cared.”
“They all told you this?”
“Pretty much. Or some rendition of it.”
“Fuck. What about Mandy? What did Mandy say?” Mandy had edited all three of my dirty chick lit chef romances.
“She was the first to pass.”
“Motherfuckfuckshitonstick.”
“That about sums up how I feel too.” Alex’s tone was sympathetic, and yet…
“What did you think of the book?” I asked.
“I didn’t like your heroine.”
It was like a punch in the throat. “You didn’t think to tell me this when you read through it?”
“I tried to say it—maybe I was too gentle.”
“Tact is overrated. In this business, writers need to have a thick skin. So come on. Lay it on me.”
“Your heroine is a raging bitch who is mean to everyone in her life, and she somehow manages to win the heart of the nicest, sweetest, most deserving guy in the world.”
“Thanks for not mincing words.” I felt like I was back in one of my creative writing classes where my fiction teacher ripped everyone’s story to shreds. Failed writers were mean.
“And Sibby?”
“Hmmm?” I was suddenly winded.
“Your voice changed in this book. It didn’t sound like you’d written it at all.”
I took a long moment, and then I asked, “So what do we do?”
“I could shop it around at some of the other houses, but frankly, I think you’ll have the same luck. I’d suggest writing another book. Maybe outline a three-book series. One similar to your dirty chef stuff.”
“I don’t want to write another series like that one,” I protested.
“Well, it would sell.”
“So I’ve gotten to that point already, huh? Art as a business? I have to decide if I want to be true to my muse or eat?”
#WriterProblems
“Think about what you want to do and give me a call a little later, okay?”
“Okay.” The word came out in one long breath.
I hung up with Alex and stuck my tongue out at the phone. I was lost in thought when Aidan finally returned.
“Sorry, sorry, I know that took way longer than expected, but I ended up at the grocery store instead. They had Marshmallow Fluff on sale and—Sibby? What’s wrong?”
Chapter 11
#realitysucks #saynotoadulting
“This is a fucking nightmare,” I said, spooning out a bite of Marshmallow Fluff and slathering it on a Graham Cracker. I added a layer of Nutella and then shoved the concoction into my mouth, hoping to eat my way through my feelings of loss and disappointment.
“How is this a nightmare? Aidan asked.
I stared at him.
“No, I’m being serious.”
“I write book. Agent takes book to publishing house. Editors not bid on book, author doesn’t sell book, author and husband become destitute and have to move in with crazy, overbearing Jewish parents.”
“First of all, thanks for breaking down the industry into digestible statements for my benefit.” He smiled. “Okay, so no editor wanted your book. So publish it yourself.”
“I can’t just publish it myself,” I retorted.
“Why not? You have the social media following. Your Instagram account alone is—”
“Is for people who like it when I spill things. Or get in clumsy accidents. I’m like Tim ‘The Tool Man’ Taylor, except Jewish…and a writer…”
“And not a contractor. Or fictional,” he pointed out. “Are they right?”
“Are who right?”
“The editors, your agent. Is your heroine a bitch?”
“Yeah, she’s a bitch. No question about it. But they all said she wasn’t even likable by the end.”
“What do you think?”
I sighed. “I think they’re all people who’ve been in the industry for years, and they know what they’re talking about.”
“Not always,” he remarked. “Sometimes you have to do your own thing, knowing you’re ahead of the curve. They’ll catch up.”
“Or they won’t. They’re very…hesitant to take a risk. Alex also said my voice had changed for this book. That it didn’t sound like me or my dirty chef trilogy.”
“So fuck them.”
I blinked. “Fuck them?”
“Yeah, fuck them! Go out on a limb, Sib. Publish it yourself. See what the masses say. Fifty Shades of Grey was a wild success, and so the industry came to E.L. James.”
“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“What?”
“You listen when I talk!”
He laughed, but then levity fled. “You take constructive criticism, Sibby. You take it really well. You listened when Alex and Mandy made suggestions for your chef trilogy. You didn’t fight—it was like you knew they were making your books stronger, better. So you have to ask yourself why you’re balking at taking their criticism now.”
“Ego?”
“Don’t think so. You get uncomfortable telling people you’re a successful author. You’ve got very little ego. So what is it about this book that has you not wanting to change it?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. I guess…I read all these books about reformed assholes. Right? I mean these heroes are such dicks! And yet they meet the one, and they end up changing and being worthy. I wanted to do that with a prickly heroine. It’s just a double standard, ya know? Assholes are redeemable, but bitches aren’t? Why?”
“Sing it, sister.” He held out a doctored-up Graham Cracker. “So your new book has an agenda?”
“I wouldn’t call it an agenda. That makes it sound like I did it on purpose. I really didn’t. But I started writing this character, and she came out different than I was expecting.”
“Be true to you, Sibby. The rest will fall into place.”
“Even if I never sell another book to another publisher?”
Aidan chuckled. “Even then.” He leaned over and placed his hand on mine. “You can do it, you know? Be a success on your own. You don’t need the backing of a publishing deal.”
I squeezed his fingers. “You have faith in me. Why?”
“Aside from that whole thing of loving your spouse and supporting their dreams?”
“You’re like, really good at life.”
“I try.”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.” I smiled, feeling better since talking to Aidan. “But I won’t think about it until our staycation is over.”
Four days later, the staycation was over and Indian summer had officially disappeared. The restaurant my friend Zeb managed was switching over to an autumn menu, and it was like a squash-pumpkin-gourd orgy.
“This soup is the best thing I’ve ever had,” I told him. “New chef?”
Zeb nodded and sipped on his espresso. “She started…a month ago? F
resh out of culinary school.”
“Let me guess, you found her,” I said with a grin. Zeb had the magic touch. We’d both been servers together at Antonio’s. When I’d left—ahem—kinda gotten fired, Zeb had left soon after for a management position at a small, failing restaurant. It had taken him four months to turn the place on the brink of closure to one of the city’s newest gems. As soon as a place started doing well, he left to find another spot. He loved the challenge.
“How much longer do you have at this place?” I asked.
“I’d say another three months.”
“And that would make how many restaurants you’ve turned around?”
“Four. No, five,” he said with a smile. “Who would’ve thought my talents would lie in turning around failing restaurants?”
“You’re like a better-looking, gay Gordon Ramsey. You so need your own TV show!”
He put his hand to his heart. “Thank you for saying that! And by the way, I’m not convinced Gordon is straight.”
I leaned forward. “What have you heard through the restaurateur grapevine?”
“Nothing. I just think I can turn him if we ever met.” Waving his hand away, he lifted it higher to signal the server waiting on us.
“You know you’re not supposed to do that, right?” I teased. “Wave down a server?”
“You’ll tip well to make up for my bad behavior.”
I shook my head in exasperation.
“We’re ready for the next course, please,” Zeb said to the gangly youth.
“Thank you,” I added. “The food is excellent.”
“I’ll tell the chef,” the server said, taking away our empty bowls and Zeb’s espresso cup.
“Okay, lady,” Zeb said as he rested his arms on the white tablecloth. “Tell me what you’re really doing here.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I came to catch up.”
“Uh hm.” Zeb’s expression said he clearly didn’t believe me. “You’re newly wed, all your writing dreams came true, and now you pop out of nowhere to catch up.”
“I haven’t really fallen off the radar, have I?”
“Nat moved to Houston to raise that little hellion—”
“Who is your godchild.”
He grinned and went on. “Then you go and disappear on me.”
“You’ve been working eighty-hour weeks,” I pointed out. “Do you have time to go out?”
“Honey, there’s always time to go out and do coke off a stripper.”
“When was the last time you did that?”
Zeb thought for a moment. “It’s been too long.” He sighed. “The idea doesn’t even really appeal to me anymore. Sad, I’ve gotten old.”
“Plus, Terry would have a field day,” I commented, mentioning his boyfriend. “You look great.” And he did. For someone who worked all the time, his skin had a healthy glow.
“I just got back from five days in the Dominican Republic. Terry surprised me.”
“Explains the skin.”
“Out with it, Sibby.”
“I’m not sure where to start.”
“What’s the most pressing?” he asked.
“Uhm… Aidan wants a baby.”
“Ew. Why?”
“I really have no idea,” I said with a sigh.
“And do you want a baby?”
“I don’t know. Yes. Someday. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Oh, man, we should’ve started lunch with a cocktail.”
“I’m not drinking,” I stated.
“Uh, why?”
“That leads me to my second problem—my book.” I filled him in on my conversation with Alex. “I don’t drink when I have to write a book.”
“That’s the stupidest thing ever,” he scoffed. “You’ve heard of Ernest Hemingway?”
“Yes.”
“And F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“Yes.”
“And Snookie?”
I let out a laugh. “I’ve got a process.” I thought for a moment. “So do you think Aidan’s right? Do you think I should publish the book myself or write another one and have Alex try to sell it?”
The server interrupted to set our food down in front of us, two plates of homemade pumpkin ravioli sprinkled with pumpkin seeds and Parmesan. After thanking the server, who quietly disappeared, I turned back to our conversation.
“Is the book good?” he asked.
“I think it is.”
“Did you write it for you or for your fans?”
“Me.”
“Then publish it yourself. I’m with Aidan. You’ve got the fan base. Fuck what other people have to say. It’s your life, your muse, your happiness.”
I sat back in my chair. “What the hell happened to you in the Dominican Republic?”
He smirked. “I’ll never tell.”
“No fair.”
“You can read about it in my posthumous autobiography: A Gay Grows in Queens.”
“I look forward to it,” I drawled.
“Try the ravioli. You’re gonna plotz.”
I was in the middle of unlocking the apartment, my arms full of groceries, when my phone rang. For a brief moment, I hoped it was Annie, but she’d gone so far underground she was probably finding oil.
Answering my phone, I stumbled into the foyer. “Hello? Hold on.”
“Okay!” came the chirp on the other end of the phone.
I knew whom that voice belonged to.
“Before we start, you’re not covered in any of your kid’s fluids, are you?”
Natalie let out a laugh. “Nope. But that’s because I stuck the little monster with Tad. I’m in New York!”
“You’re not!”
“Surprise!”
“Ohmygod!” I squealed. “Did I know you were coming? Did I forget you were coming?”
“Last-minute trip. Meeting with a very high-maintenance children’s author later this week who insisted on seeing the illustrations in person.”
“Oh, those quirky writer types,” I mocked. “We’re terrible, aren’t we?”
“The worst,” she agreed. “Anyway, I have some free time tomorrow night.”
“Pencil me in.”
“I can’t wait to see you.”
Nat and her husband had moved last year from New Jersey to Houston, and I felt her loss every day. Even though she had a kid and I didn’t, we were still close. She was a talented illustrator who’d been doodling as long as I’d been scribbling. Now, we were both successful artists. Though we didn’t talk as frequently, we still made time for a weekly phone call. I’d missed it the last few weeks since I’d been out of consistent cell service.
There was so much to catch up on.
“You don’t change at all,” I remarked when Nat strolled into the coffee shop the next day. She was dressed in skinny black jeans, black ankle boots, and a sexy leather jacket. She’d chopped her long hair into a sleek bob months ago, and because she sent me a selfie from the salon chair, it wasn’t a shock. A delicate gold chain encased her neck, and I admired the subtle grace she possessed. If Nat had been taller, she could have easily been a model. She didn’t even look like she’d popped out a kid.
“That’s not true,” she said, releasing me from a hug. “I got a new tattoo.”
“That makes number four or number five?”
“Six.” Pulling back the right side of her hair, she grinned. Below her ear was a tiny black bird. “I’m in love.”
“So am I—and I don’t even have any tattoos!”
“The only untatted person in Brooklyn.”
“Aidan doesn’t have any tattoos, either.”
“A match made in heaven.” She leaned back in the red booth of our favorite coffee shop. It was near Antonio’s, and we’d spent many afternoons before work, drinking coffee and talking about our dreams of being paid for our art.
I rested my casted arm on the table. “It needs adornment.”
Chapter 12
#ifitwalkslikeaduck
“Tell it again.” Nat laughed and raised the steaming cappuccino to her lips. Her brown eyes danced with humor as she surveyed me over foam.
“Why is it so funny?” I demanded.
“Because it was a raccoon!” Laughter pealed from her lips. “God, this is better than the last movie night out Tad and I had.”
For the past hour, I’d recounted what had occurred on the camping trip. From me showering using a privacy tent to the rash on my face.
“I’m glad my pain amuses you.” I held up my casted-wrist and raised an eyebrow.
“Well, that does suck,” she agreed. “But I made it really pretty.”
“You did,” I agreed, enjoying the sight of the cast covered in Sharpie. She’d managed to draw and shade the cast to look like a piece of tree bark.
“Be glad I travel with my felt tips.”
“All hail. I bow down to thee.”
She laughed and then she peered at me with a knowing look. “You look troubled.”
“Do I?” I let out a sigh. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve talked to Aidan and Zeb and yet—no clarity.”
“What about Annie?” Nat asked. The two of them had gotten to know each other well because both of them had been in my bridal party. So had Zeb. What could I say? I was nontraditional.
“She’s part of what’s got me all mixed up,” I admitted. I hadn’t heard from her—and neither had Caleb. I really didn’t want to talk about Annie to Nat. It felt…disloyal.
“Okay, so you don’t want to talk about Annie,” Nat said. “What else has got you in knots?”
“Did you want kids? Before you got pregnant?” I blurted out.
“Blunt is your middle name.” She looked at me in amusement. “I was sort of ambivalent. Do you want kids?”
“Aidan does.”
“Ah.”
“He’s not pressuring me,” I rushed to say. “But I feel that pressure anyway.”
“Yeah. Tad wants another one.”
“Already? The monster is not even two!”
“Everyone always talks about women being baby hungry. Don’t buy into it. It’s the guys.”
Tales of a Sibby Slicker Page 8