Amy Inspired
Page 22
He’d already made up his mind. And here he was, trying to use me to buffer the blow.
I stood so fast I hit my head on the wind chime dangling from the porch roof. He reached the door first, insisted on holding it open for me.
“Does that mean you won’t talk to her?”
“Tell her yourself,” I said, slamming the door in his face.
I considered calling Zoë, but decided against it. Michael was above all a fickle person. There was always the chance that he would change his mind. Secretly, though, I wished he would break up with her, so she could find a pleasant, intelligent man who deserved her.
To calm myself down, I made a cup of tea. I sat at the kitchen table, intent on organizing the week’s unopened mail. I saved the envelope postmarked from the Southwest Literary Review for last.
Dear Author:
THANK YOU for your submission to the Southwest Literary Review. We find, however, that your manuscript does not meet our current needs. We wish you the best of luck placing your work elsewhere.
Sincerely,
The Editors
I sat at the table, stewing in my irritation, staring until the tea went cold. The envelope included a brochure for an upcoming writers’ conference, Getting Published for the At Home Writer. It was a $700 overnight workshop.
I scribbled out the At Home Writer and then wrote Dummies in bold caps. I stared at the phrase.
I went to my bedroom, opened my laptop and typed:
GETTING PUBLISHED FOR DUMMIES
Writer’s Creed:
With my pen
(laptop, word processor, or otherwise)
I will pursue truth and beauty
for the improvement of my mind and the edification of
humanity.
If this results in personal fame and glory,
I am resigned.
Chapter One: The Inflatable Ego
So you want to navigate the slush pile (which in your mind resembles a very large pool of pink Icee) to that great pot of glittering gold success: publication. Aspiring author, this book is for you!
We at Getting Published for Dummies believe that if given the right tools and pointed in the right direction, any and every striving writer can publish their fledgling manuscript to become king of the hill, Oprah Winfrey Show-bound stars. No more late nights wondering if your sorry flesh will amount to anything! No more counting your greasy tips and rejection slips! Turn to page two, buckle up, and kiss anonymity good-bye!
I stared at the blinking cursor. In workshop we frequently complained (with no trifling satisfaction) how everyone we knew wanted to write a book. We were like Americans in summertime Paris, bemoaning the rush of tourists, guilty of the very trespass we found so distasteful. We were in competition, always. We forgot why we’d started the entire journey in the first place.
I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when being recognized for my work had begun to matter. There’d been a time when I cared only about the work itself, when I’d have spent hours happily sweating in the corner of an old attic just for the joy of seeing my thoughts materialize on the page. Back then it had been play. As a child I would have recited my tales to a brick wall for the pleasure of storytelling.
When had my being heard become such an imperative?
… If the author has deluded him- or herself into believing that writing is a selfless act of discovery or a vehicle of human communication or the expression of the soul’s deepest longing etc., s/he cannot deny that s/he also hopes the book will become a ticket to the Interesting Life.
It behooves us at this point to define the Interesting Life (IL). For the aspiring novelist, the IL is a vague conglomeration of things, most commonly consisting of flights to great cities (which, to date, the author has only ever seen in pretty night-scape posters), interviews on television talk shows, book signings, and the endowment of a glistening aura/radiant beauty and importance upon his/her person, the kind paparazzi photograph.
The IL is analogous to and interchangeable with the Tragic Life, the Rags to Riches Life, the Inspirational Life and so forth. While it should be noted that each has its identifiable differences, they all spring primarily from the greed of the competitive ego …
I wrote with the rejection letter open on the desk beside me. I debated taking the letter to work and recording it in my blue binder along with the other carefully tabulated rejections.
Instead, I walked to the sink, shoved the letter down the garbage disposal, and chunked the form up.
19
From: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
To: spenceev@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Thursday 4.19.07 12:04 PM
Subject: Final Excerpt
Attachment: Getting Published for Dummies part2
Elements of a Publishable Novel
In alphabetical order
Character: Any person who plays a part in the narrative
Also, what you stand to lose in becoming famous
Climax: The turning point or point of highest interest in the plot
Complication: A problem or host of problems. Example: the apartment in which you are working burns down, your laptop and files smoldering with it. And/or your spouse threatens to file for divorce, on grounds of indecent exposure, i.e. that you are writing about his/her personal life, thereby exposing him/her to public censure and shame.
Crisis: When complications become overwhelming
Denouement: The unraveling or untying of the complexities of a plot. Derives from the Old French denoer, “to untie.” Sprinkle generously in party conversation to impress non-literary acquaintances.
Omniscient: Literally, “all knowing.” The ability of an author or narrator (usually third person) to tell the reader directly about the events that have occurred, are occurring, or will occur in the story, and about the thoughts and feelings of the characters. Also, God.
Plot: Looks like a witch’s hat:
Conclusion: A Happy Ending. Boy gets Girl (or vice versa), protagonist saves the world, and, when novel becomes a success, the author’s Interesting Life begins.
———
From: spenceev@copenhagen.edu
To: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Friday 4.20.07 1:30 PM
Subject: Dummy’s Guide
Amy:
Read your piece. Whimsical form for a cathartic rant. And funny. Enjoyed the
“dictionary” definitions excerpt in particular.
My theory: you have been reading Vonnegut and receiving rejections. A
courageous first attempt at pomo metafiction, yes?
Will leave my formal response on your desk.
Ever so sincerely,
Everett
P.S. Lonnie sends his love
———
From: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
To: spenceev@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Saturday 4.21.07 11:37 AM
Subject: Ugh
Everett:
Thanks for your response. It was, as always, brilliant. I’m recycling the manuscript as we speak.
You really think I am trying to be Vonnegut? Am I that sophomoric?
Sincerely Dejected,
Amy
———
From: iheartofu@writersnet.com
To: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Sunday 4.22.07 2:00 AM
Subject: story
Beloved Aimeeeee:
everett is a chump. really, he didn’t like it? then don’t listen to him. i think the whole thing is hilarious straight through and that you should send it out with your next batch of submissions. you’re still submitting, right? tell me you’re submitting. you have to write for two now… . i haven’t read or written a page since coming out here to be w/mom and feel perfectly wretched about it. it’s like this weight on my chest—except, crap, that’s a terrible cliché. see, even my e-mails are clichéd now! and I’m using exclamation points (!!!!)
Zoë, the illustrious
———
> From: spenceev@copenhagen.edu
To: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Monday 4.23.07 9:03 AM
Subject: IMPORTANT
The Intergalactic Gateway Convention is coming to Columbus May 12th through May 14th. Tickets on sale now at 1–800–345-SPACE. Informational flier attached below. Costumes sold separately.
———
From: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
To: spenceev@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Monday 4.23.07 9:07 AM
Subject: Re: IMPORTANT
If you want me to respond, then turn around and mock me to my face. I’m sitting three feet away from you.
Amy
P. S. And please put that out, you know you can’t smoke in here.
———
From: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
To: iheartofu@writersnet.com
Sent: Wednesday 4.25.07 8:45 PM
Subject: home*sweet*home
Zoë,
Am at home tonight b/c Mom insisted I go with her to buy a dress for the wedding and this was her only night free. I should have gone out myself, but she wanted to buy the dress for me and I couldn’t very well afford anything new on my own. I think this is compensation for the fact that I’m not a bridesmaid, which offends her to no end. I hope Marie believes me when I say I’m glad to be free of the obligation. I’m at that age where being a bridesmaid is a dangerous gamble: “always a bridesmaid …”
I can’t seem to escape this house. I lie in bed and examine why I’m so tied to home (which is not really home anymore—I have worn out my welcome, as the boxed journals and bedclothes indicate), but I feel like it’s out of my hands. I can’t help that Brian is marrying—that you are gone. That I don’t have the money or inclination to be elsewhere. Or do you think those are poor excuses? Am I in danger of become a hopeless, tragic townie in manner of Ethan Frome, my hands tied by impersonal fate?
Amy
———
From: iheartofu@writersnet.com
To: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Thursday 4.26.07 10:03 PM
Subject: Naturalism Sux
A:
what’s all this ethan frome business? i don’t ever want to hear you mention him again. no more of this fatalistic pessimism. gather the coins from the couch cushions and fly away little bird! flee to a place warm and free where men are your servants and it is Christian to lie on the beach merely contemplating the lovely idea of God.
i asked michael if he could come visit this weekend he said he was going to try then called back to say he couldn’t get away from work. this whole cancer thing totally freaks him out.
Zoë the illustrious but increasingly exhausted.
———
From: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
To: iheartofu@writersnet.com
Sent: Thursday 4.26.07 11:45 AM
Subject: (none)
Zoë the illustrious:
Have been praying for you and promise that I will continue to do so. I meant to say so earlier, but it felt kind of trite. Know that you’re in my thoughts every second and that I beg God to keep you sane.
I’ve been wondering lately what would happen if I really prayed. All the promises in Scripture seem to imply we are entitled to the same miracles Christ performed.
Did I ever tell you that when I was a little girl I tried to walk on water? Dad had rented a paddleboat for our family vacation. I don’t know what came over me, but out there in the very middle of the lake, I just stepped off the back of that paddleboat and slipped right under the water. It was, and remains, the greatest spiritual failure of my life.
So my question: was I being foolish or was my faith smaller than even a mustard seed?
Amy
———
From: iheartofu@writersnet.com
To: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Thursday 4.26.07 7:02 PM
Subject: Re: (none)
who’s to judge?
what i want to know is why miracles are things you always hear about but never see. it’s always a story someone heard from a neighbor who saw it happen to a cousin. as a believer, i am always catching the aftereffect of the miracles, the last ripple to roll out from the place God comes down and touches the earth. why can’t i see an angel? water to wine? your faith was big enough: why didn’t you walk on water?
the year mom was diagnosed with cancer i prayed every day that God would heal her—miraculously heal her. what kills me is that I really believed it could happen. the expectation only increased daily because a part of me feared that if I didn’t expect Him to help her, He will have no choice but to fail me … that’s so messed up it almost sounds like something you’d do.
it’s exhausting to keep the hope engine running. i’m like a kid pinching her eyelids open to stay awake for the end of the show: certain that if i let my hope fall even for a second, i’ve failed mom, God, myself.
don’t tell anyone this. esp. the Baptists. they will just tell me to read Psalms.
love
Zoë
———
From: iheartofu@writersnet.com
To: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
Sent: Thursday 4.26.07 2:07 AM
Subject: news
back in the hospital. wanted to call but is late. mom in bad way: high-grade small bowel obstruction. she’s up for early morning surgery. pray it goes all right.
———
From: gallagham@copenhagen.edu
To: iheartofu@writersnet.com
Sent: Monday 4.30.07 11:56 PM
Subject: Re: news
Zoë,
I’ve been trying to call. I know maybe you don’t want to talk. I just wanted to write, to say I’m sorry.
Waiting to hear from you.
Love
Amy
20
Brian once told me that when a person has cancer, they always have cancer. However aggressive the treatment, however meticulously a surgeon disentangles the tumors one by one, a single stray cell flicked from the scalpel is all the root a metastasis needs. Some patients are fortunate; for whatever reason the remaining cancer cells never grow and the body carries them along unwittingly. Others aren’t so lucky.
It was Brian’s first year of med school and he was always relaying facts he found fascinating. But what fascinated him typically horrified me. Cancer, for example.
Fay’s surgery went well, but the physician suspected a perforation in her bowel. A hole in her intestines would be inoperable. The cancer had grown throughout her lower digestive tract and further surgery would do more harm than good.
They fed her a mixture of charcoal and then they waited. When the black matter appeared in the bag affixed to the wound in her abdomen, the hospital cleric gave Jerry prayer and a handful of brochures for hospice.
I called Zoë morning and night, but she never picked up. I was grateful for my busyness, how it distracted me from imagining her grief. It was the end of the semester and tension filled the air. No amount of hard work leaves a teacher or a student prepared for May. My freshmen balked against writing their last essay. The creative writers scrambled to complete revisions for the final portfolio I’d assigned the very first day of workshop.
I rushed to finish overdue recommendation letters and counseled worried freshmen through grade anxiety. Please be kind, one student wrote on the bottom of his final paper. I need an A in this class to get into law school. And I need my dad to not kill me.
Everett and I went to every end-of-the-year reading and graduate student presentation hosted by the English Department. We attended Middle-Class Morality, poems by Dr. Janine Madison’s creative writing class; Leslie Boyle’s dissertation presentation on Women’s Rhetorical Transformations of the Discourse of Domesticity; and Jennifer Donally’s Mirabel LeAnne Johnson’s Circus Feline: Renegotiating Models of the Other. We sat quietly through the presentations before slinking back to our office, stolen soda pops under either arm, one plastic plateful of hor
s d’oeuvres each.
Amidst end-of-year festivities, the English Department also hosted its annual undergraduate award ceremony. Ashley was the only student I had nominated. She won a $2,000 scholarship for her story about Natalie, which, for lack of inspiration, she ended up titling “Natalie.”
The assembly was held in the ballroom of the student commons building. They could call it a ballroom, but it more resembled a hotel lobby—wallpaper with cream and white stripes, a dizzying flowerprint carpet. Dr. Lindbergh, the presenter for the evening, wore a paisley silk blouse so like the curtain behind her, the competing patterns made my eyes cross. All those in attendance not receiving an award had nominated the winners, who were for the most part overdressed and self-conscious.
Ashley had been thrilled when I told her about her win, but she was positively white at the ceremony. She took her certificate and returned to her seat without once glancing up to acknowledge the applause.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her afterward.
“I don’t know.” She folded the corner of the certificate between her forefinger and thumb. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“What doesn’t feel right?”
“I feel like I made money off of something personal,” she explained. “Like I’m a sellout.”
“You didn’t write that story to make money,” I said. “You wrote it because you had to. Besides, this is an academic scholarship. What’s two thousand dollars to the cost of one year of school? It’s like getting two dollars really.”
“I guess.”
I took her out for dinner to celebrate. We ate at Dinah’s, the greasy spoon of Copenhagen, where the waitresses wore blue uniform skirts with white tennis shoes and every meal came with a blueberry muffin the size of a small cake. We managed to talk for half an hour about writing and books and school and grading.
When we hit a lull in our conversation she confessed,“So I stopped by your church the other day. I went to the service, actually.”