But seriously, how can I eat when I have a job and apartment to find? In Manhattan, no less? This is scary stuff. Can’t I at least have a moment of flipping out? No, because the sooner I get a job and apartment, the sooner I won’t live with my parents. On the whole, we get along and they are very generous, but taking the train into the city is a drag.
I read the papers, sift through the want ads, looking for jobs in publishing. I’ll take anything, even though I want to work in the romance genre, or fiction, at least. Those early days in Cleveland come back to me—looking for temp work, finding work clothes, feeling giddy about a new beginning. Manhattan is frightening to me. There are too many people. How will I find a job even remotely suitable, especially since I’m not sure what publishing houses are available to me?
One morning, I dress in my old graduation dress, which looks corporate, and head out for the train to go “pound the pavement.” This is where you cue the Saturday Night Fever music, with John Travolta walking the streets in his disco clothes. There’s nothing remotely glamorous about what I’m about to do. And these days, you don’t exactly show up at the office and apply. But I need to do something active. My mission is to stop in at a few temp agencies and register in person. I haven’t had to do this in a long time.
At the train station, just as I finish buying a ticket, a wave of stomach-plunging panic hits me. How can I go back there? It’s such a big city. I’m going to die. If I were married, I’d just go home into the loving arms of my husband. Why didn’t I marry someone rich and good-looking? I’d have no problems whatsoever.
Oh God, how will I get home? I can barely move. I’ll be the lady in the middle of Penn Station having a nervous breakdown. This is when I stand on the train platform and start crying. The sunny sky feels oppressive. I can’t move forward physically, much less emotionally. This is no way for me to look for a job. What would I say to these temp agencies? They’ll know I’m in crisis. Moving from New Mexico to Manhattan was too drastic a change. Why did I think I could start over in such a big city?
I turn around and run home, sweating in the awful heat, feeling dizzy. My mother is in her office on the second floor. I’m completely out of breath, falling apart.
“What’s wrong?” she asks calmly.
“I can’t do it, Mom.” I’m sobbing. Mom has only cried once in front of me. I, on the other hand, feel no shame blubbering my face off repeatedly. It’s not even an issue.
Sadly for me at that moment, Bonnie Smith is not a “there, there” type of mother. She won’t rush up and hug me and tell me it’s going to be okay. She did that in Cleveland, but not now. I’m too old now. This is not a near-death situation. I’ve lived six years as a full-fledged grown-up person.
“Why can’t you do it, Patience?” Her eyes are stony brown, not a shred of warmth. I know she loves me like crazy, but she’s kicking my ass.
“It’s too much.” I cry even harder. My corporate outfit feels like a clown suit. Teaching French in New Mexico was such a good gig. Now I’ve screwed it all up for this desolate stinky place that has garbage on its streets and noisy, crazy people. Dogs piss everywhere, at least judging from what little time I’ve spent in New York City in the summer. Oh yes, my summer with Gunther.
“So, you’re going to stay here and be a big baby,” Mom says.
Can you believe she said that? I know she’s right, but would it kill her to be gentler? Gentle is the wave of the future. If your student gets a D in your class, it’s okay. He’s not “feeling” right about learning French. How will it help him with his big plans to be Donald Trump? Oh, little Ainsley can’t make it to class. She’s having some issues since not getting invited to so-and-so’s party. I’ve heard many excuses and requests for indulgence over the years, and now I’m giving one to my “old-school” mother. I’ve been through so much, I should take extra-good care of myself, spend a few days relaxing and reading magazines.
Every heroine needs a push, and my mother is usually mine. Then again, I am her daughter, so I push back.
“I’m not going in to New York today.” My voice is a little stronger and I go back to my room with my furniture-destroying cats. The strong thing to do would be to rush right out and catch the next train. But screw it, I do feel like a total mess. By the time I got home, it would be night.
I know Mom is disappointed in me. She’s aware of that mantra I have flowing through me, the one from seven years ago: You’ve been through so much. Give yourself a break. She teaches students like me every day, ones who ask for a paper extension because they have the sniffles.
I’ve given myself plenty of breaks and pity parties. It’s easy to fall back on trauma—though it is valid to some degree—and not advance. But do I want to stay in this house, watch my shows, and put off my dazzling future? If I were a character in a Jane Austen novel, my options would be limited. I might be able to attend a dance, maybe take a trip to London to visit my aunt and uncle. Not so for me. My choices are limitless, and it’s paralyzing.
I’m afraid of being mediocre, even though on some days it’s fine to wallow in an average life. Otherwise you might die from the stress of being so amazing. I’ll push past this bad period. So I don’t make it into the city today. But I am on the train the very next day. I don’t find a job that day, but it’s a start.
• • •
Going to my first Smith family reunion since my return east is difficult. The Smiths are a fabulous breed—friendly, loving, and they all have a dry sense of humor, as well as a large appetite for starches (cookies, potato salad, macaroni salad—it’s one of the many reasons why I love them). Since my grandparents passed away, our family functions are more sedate. It’s up to the aunts and uncles to keep us together and organize reunions.
I want to show everyone that I have my shit together, even though I don’t. Showing up counts for a lot, doesn’t it?
We meet somewhere in Connecticut, out in the boonies. Most of all, I know my father will be there, and his approval means everything to me. The vibe I get is that he wishes I’d stayed in Albuquerque. Why would I give up a good teaching job to come east when there’s nothing here (except family)? He would love for me to marry and settle somewhere far away—at least this is my sense. How did things between us change so fast? One day, he was telling me what a special person I am, the next, I’m this foreign element disrupting his landscape.
This only makes me try harder. If I am a mess, I make sure I have the appearance of a beauty queen. My hair is lush, chin length. I’m wearing white shorts (how confident is that) and a black shirt, makeup flawless. Basically, I’m dressing for my father. The reunion turns out to be a golden afternoon of chatting, mingling, eating. At one point, I corner my father.
“So I’m back!” I say.
“Good, good.”
I can tell he’s not buying my faux-cheerfulness. It’s a bummer when someone knows you’re treading water. “I’m getting into publishing, sending out résumés. I was dying in Albuquerque.”
“Oh, I thought it was a good place for you, nice school.”
“I couldn’t do it forever. I’m not a teacher.”
I try to emphasize this, but he’s still not hooked into my façade. My mother would at least pretend that all was well and say, “Good for you!” He’s eating a potato chip, which is a rarity since he’s given up junk food.
It dawns on me that he doesn’t expect a lot from me anymore. I could stay in Albuquerque in a job that doesn’t suit me, and that would be ideal. This whole striking into new territory seems rash and neurotic. In some ways, he’s right. My life would have been just fine, teaching French, gradually losing my Parisian accent, not seeing my family all that much, dating more cyclists, eventually marrying someone who worked at Intel.
But now I’m here, along with all my possessions, my cats. I have bigger plans. As with college, I’m just not sure how they will materialize. In the mean
time, at least I care enough to haul myself to the reunion. My greatest fear is not that he disapproves, but that he just doesn’t care anymore what I do.
My cute white shorts and I make it home somehow, more determined than ever to prove my father wrong—or surpass whatever path he may have laid out for me.
• • •
I blanket the New York publishing scene with cover letters and résumés. It is starting over at its finest, with me trying to convey that I am worthy enough to start at the bottom, which is where I belong. My experience in publishing consists of having read several books on how to edit, devouring countless romance novels and French literary fiction, and grading students’ papers, as well as doing my own writing. I learn about copyediting and network with publishing contacts. One person leads me to another person until I get a temp job in the publicity department at Simon & Schuster.
On my first day, I’m whisked to my adorable cubicle (just like in the movies!), where I type and ferry around covers for initials. My boss is this blue-eyed blonde who loves to curse. She gets so impassioned that I think she’ll have a heart attack. But I love her feistiness. In fact, New Yorkers tend to be witty, I discover. Everything moves at a faster pace, even the humor.
I know from the start I won’t work permanently at Simon & Schuster. Publicity is not my goal, but my fascination with the romance novel blossoms as I study industry magazines such as Romantic Times and Affaire de Coeur, both of which give reviews of the latest titles—and there are a lot of them. At my local Barnes & Noble, I pick up as many of these little nuggets as I can, along with a few thick ones by Jackie Collins (I’m a superfan) and Danielle Steel. I even join Romance Writers of America and go to a few of the New York chapter meetings. It is a supportive, nurturing network with a definite feel of “us versus them” (with “them” being the editors). I’m not sure where I fit in since I did write my masterpiece, Teacher’s Pet, and yet I’m trying to get a job in publishing. Which side am I on? Hanging out with both sides can’t hurt, right?
From the beginning, I make friends with Tanya, a sassy historical-romance writer, who seems to have a wealth of knowledge about the romance world. Over the phone, we have a long conversation about my background, how I came to love reading romance, and what I plan to do. I tell her that I want to write romances, to which she chuckles, since, of course, I must have been bitten by this special bug. She tells me who’s who and what’s what, mostly from her long experience as a writer trying to get into print. You gotta watch those publishers, always trying to mold you, always trying to be marketers. Okay, that seems typical. But still, you want to get published, right? So what other options are there?
For about a month, I commute to work and gather information. Each day is another step forward. I’m moving away from that crying girl at the train station. And then I get a call I never expected. It usually takes a girl a few transitional steps to get to a desirable plateau, but not this time. The call is from Mecca and Disneyland combined into one giant ice-cream cone.
“Harlequin would like you to come in to temp for them . . . ,” my agency informs me.
Are you kidding me? The Harlequin? As in the biggest romance publisher in the universe, home of those cute books you can hide in your purse, the books that got me through high school, college, and finishing my depressing master’s thesis? I practically run to my assignment, breathless and excited, ready to read these suckers full-time.
Someone up there is definitely looking after me. So it’s only a temp job where I’ll read “slush” and give my opinion, and also do tasks typical of an editorial assistant, i.e., transcribe notes, call authors, type up forms on the typewriter. Maybe by the end, I’ll either quit reading those novels for good or never leave. Either way, I choose my side. I’m a “them.”
• • •
The elevator stops on the sixth floor in a midtown-east building. My first view is the receptionist’s desk, and this perky older woman with dyed red hair welcomes me. Two redheads in one place. Sounds good to me.
I sit on the couch and wait. So far, this feels like a tranquil place. Quiet, no rushing around, books featured behind a glass showcase. All I want to do is sit in an office and read, learn about these romances I still devour during candlelit bubble baths.
My new boss, Tracy, comes out to greet me. I recognize her instantly, with her red corkscrew curls and youthful features. What could be better: a third redhead in the same company. I read about Tracy during my extensive research on the company. She was often profiled in industry magazines and in books about how to write a romance. Meeting her in the flesh, and having her as my boss, is like working with a movie star.
She is incredibly nice, and it’s difficult for me to believe that she’s my manager. On my first day, I sit with her in her office, where she goes over the structure of the company. Harlequin is based in Canada with offices all over the world, mostly in the UK, Australia, and New York, but with satellites in a host of other countries. The offices in Canada take up several floors, with full marketing, art, production, and editorial departments. In New York, there is one floor with roughly forty employees, comprised of editorial and a handful of production staff.
As one might imagine, I discover that there is a romance for every kind of reader: racy, historical, light and fun, a more classic story, suspense, creepy verging on paranormal, home and family focused—essentially, whatever you can imagine, there’s a romance for it. I gasp when Tracy tells me how many books the company publishes a month. Over a hundred? Really?
Each line gets piles and piles of submissions. As I walk down the hall I see mountains of unread manuscripts on shelves. No wonder my services are needed, especially when Tracy tells me that Harlequin prides itself on the mandate that each submission be read.
These submissions are where I come in, albeit temporarily. Since one of her editors just got promoted, Tracy needs a set of eyes to read for the line that she manages, Harlequin Historical, which boasts some stars of the genre: Ruth Langan, Margaret Moore, Carolyn Davidson, Merline Lovelace, and Cheryl Reavis.
On the first day, she hands me some manuscripts. “Just read these and tell me what you think.” Exactly what I want to do all day long.
That seems simple enough. I taught high school and middle school, which involved high energy for eight hours, plus all the after-hours preparation and grading. This assignment—sit and read—is a piece of cake.
As I go through the manuscripts, I wonder about the people who work here. Where did they come from? Later, I hear that Tracy’s background was in film and then she moved over to publishing, winding up here. Now she’s a senior editor. Maybe her letting me work for her isn’t so crazy at all.
In her department is Margaret, the next editor I meet. She’s basically a supermodel—tall, blond, willowy—and if she wasn’t so interested in what you think and fun to be around, you’d have to hate her. Not only is she perfect, with the perfect children and perfect husband, but she also displays high levels of enthusiasm for her job. She is funny, intense, and savvy—on the other spectrum from me right now, but I like her instantly and she helps me settle into my temporary position. Everybody is pretty darn nice.
I’m put in this large, recently vacated office with a window, which is pretty plush for a temp. The editorial assistants sit in a bullpen, these half-walled cubicles with no privacy. It’s one of the rites of passage to endure before promotion to assistant editor. Though my office is good reason to resent me, my new coworkers are friendly. So it’s me, a bunch of manuscripts, and the feeling that I could belong here. As I walk around the office, I notice it’s lived in, with weathered carpeting, cubicles, and offices, and a close-your-door-if-you’re- going-to-smoke policy. I smell some kindred smokers in a few of the offices. Mostly, though, the employees seem serene—overwhelmed with work but happy because it’s fun work.
• • •
A few months later, I love my new job even m
ore. Since I’m working on historical romances, I dash to my nearest bookstore to pick up some other samples, finding Julie Garwood’s Clayborne Brides series: One Pink Rose, One White Rose, and One Red Rose—about three brothers in the West who find their special “roses.” What fun to get lost in another time period, and so much more enjoyable than my American history and world civ classes (I always got a C). It seems like a special kind of heaven to read romances all day, but I’m given the submissions from the outside, the manuscripts called slush, which I find offensive since Teacher’s Pet would be considered slush. Every writer thinks she’s sending in a gem. But now that I’m a “them,” I don’t fight the term slush. Some of it is real slush, which I go through at a faster and faster pace. I learn that I don’t have to read the entire manuscript to know if it’s a dud. There’s no time to be nice. You can be a little nice and send a personal rejection letter, but the only way to make the pile go away is to keep reading and evaluating.
I find a few stories that I feel are Harlequin-ready and pass them to Tracy. She rejects all of them and explains why. Over time, I learn more about what Harlequin readers might like, and one afternoon, Tracy asks if I’d like to apply for an assistant editor position, which is one rung up from entry level. So I would be skipping over the editorial assistant level, which is way more than I expected. This is that moment in Working Girl when Tess goes in thinking she’s going to be Philip Bosco’s secretary, but instead is given her own office and a better job than she’d imagined.
Maybe this move to New York is the best idea I’ve ever had. I apply for the job, and by some miracle I get it.
• • •
“Don’t you think we’ve watched P and P too many times?” I ask. After dinner, my mother and I retreat to the TV room and plop in videotape one of the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice.
The last version I saw was the Masterpiece Theatre version with my grandmother, back when I was fifteen, which made me want to read Jane Austen’s book, which compelled me to read the rest of her books.
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