This, my friends, was a revelation. Not only did it offer the ultimate praise for a writer—“You are me!”—it helped me to resolve a dilemma I’ve been struggling with for the last year. My whole life, in fact.
See, ever since my fourth-grade teacher prophesied to our class that I would be a famous writer, I’ve wanted to write a book. And there was, in my very recent past, a little book I’d slaved away on for nearly two years, a book with great promise and poor follow-through.
But now, thanks to Genie, I know what the problem is and how to solve it. The problem is I didn’t have enough passion for that last book. So I’m going to let it die a natural death and start a new book. And even though she’s the genie and I’m just a brokenhearted writer from Seattle, I’m going to make her wish come true. Which means the old book project is retired and I am now officially going to focus on Breakup Babe the Book!
What form it might take I do not know. Yet. But I swear to God, at this moment, I want nothing more than to make it happen. And if there is one thing I learned—and taught myself—with that last book, it was discipline and persistence. That may sound odd, considering
I’m giving up on it, but as the great Kenny Rogers said, “You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.” I’m cutting my losses, yes, but I’m not giving up on my dream of being an author.
And I want to thank Genie—thank you, thank you, THANK you—for showing me a way to revive that dream! One hundred free autographed copies for you and yours!
Love,
Breakup Babe
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“Okay, what’s up?” I looked over at GalPal #2, who had stopped working and was reading the most recent issue of The Stranger. The cover bore a drawing of a fat, naked elf straddling a keg of beer. I felt giddy from caffeine and hope. Though the doctor still hadn’t called, this recent turn of events lessened the sting of his rejection. Who needed a show-offy, self-absorbed Jewish doctor when I was going to be a best-selling writer? GalPal #2 had obviously been waiting impatiently to show me whatever it was. She instantly turned her laptop to face me and said, “Greensleeves Press is accepting submissions for their 2005 publishing schedule!”
I stared at her computer, confused, although the word “publishing” made my ears perk up.
“Remember that memoir we read about the woman who did the writing program at U.W.?” Maybe it was that we were both Geminis, but GalPal #2 was more my twin than any of my other friends. We shared books, clothes, and interests—and many of the same annoying traits, including impatience, flightiness, and an inability to navigate. Today, in fact, I was clothed in a pair of black corduroy low-rider pants that were on semipermanent loan from her since her pregnancy. “Greensleeves published that book.” Impatient, she turned the screen back toward her and read from it: “We’re interested in fragmentary writing of literary quality, including journals, diaries, notebooks, and fiction in diary form.”
She looked back up at me. Her hazel eyes were open wide. “This would be perfect for your book!” She looked back down at her computer and read again. “Greensleeves is currently accepting submissions for its 2005 publishing season. The deadline is December 1.” She looked up at me again and waited for my response.
I had told her, of course, about my discovery on Thirtysomething. She’d been the first one I’d told, in fact. Maybe that was because she’d been available on IM at the time, but still she’d reacted in a very satisfying manner.
Lucy says: Wow, it gives me the chills just to read this!
Rachel says: I know. Me, too!
For a moment, I didn’t really comprehend what she was saying. Around me, the regular Victrola noises swirled. Someone ordered a mocha. The espresso machine hissed. A toddler exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. I looked at GalPal #2 and wondered what she wanted me to say. Why was she looking at me so expectantly?
“Don’t you think the timing is just too perfect?” she said. “Finding that blog yesterday, and now this?”
Then someone cheered loudly. Startled, we both looked over at the counter, where Chuck, the excitable barista, had raised his arms in a victory salute. “I just won ten dollars in the lottery. Thank you, thank you!” he said. Several people clapped and whistled.
We looked at each other again. She was right. It was perfect. Synchronicity. Wasn’t that what they called this? Suddenly everything made sense to me. A smile spread across my face. I thought of the whale from my dream. The whale that had surfaced when Loser and I broke up in a storm-tossed dinghy, rising from the ocean of my tears to tell me There is a reason for all this heartbreak and pain.
I’d always believed in that whale.
POST A COMMENT
Wow, great idea! I can’t wait till the book comes out! I’ll be the first in line to buy it!
Little Princess | Homepage | 11/26/02—4:19 P.M.
I think we’re entitled to a certain amount of the royalties, since the blog started in our house, aren’t we?
Greedy | 11/26/02—7:31 P.M.
I’m honored to be quoted on your blog. You can quote me on your book jacket too!
GenieG | Homepage | 11/27/02—11:51 A.M.
Ah, yes, revenge will be sweet, won’t it? When you’re a best-selling author, your ex will be on his way to his fourth divorce, drunk and alone in a single-occupancy hotel.
Jake | 11/27/02—12:11 P.M.
Chapter Twenty
As Thanksgiving flew past, I cranked out a well-written if somewhat vague proposal for how to turn Breakup Babe into a memoir. Now my days at the office were filled with equal parts keeping up my blog and putting together the proposal. The gray walls retreated just a bit and if I was late with a few edits, well, I had a higher cause. I knew this baby could sell. Blogs were in the news all the time these days, so I had a timely hook. Throw in my tales of heartbreak and juicy dating stories, and I had a guaranteed best seller! All my friends and family agreed.
Temporary Insanity had been a promising idea, too, but I didn’t have a word of the book written when I made my brilliant pitch, and subsequently failed to produce anything worthwhile. This time around, I had material to back up my promise—four months’ worth of blog entries. It wasn’t enough to fill a whole book, but it was a start.
A week after I sent my proposal in to Greensleeves Press, it was rejected.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d convinced myself that fate was not just knocking on my door, it was barreling in with guns blazing. This was supposed to be it. My big breakthrough! The triumph of the whale!
Ha.
I should have known better. All of the world’s most famous authors have gotten rejected—multiple times! So what made me think the first publisher I sent this idea to was going to snap it up? Clearly, in writing, as in romance, I was deluded. My turn in the blogosphere had simply inflated my ego.
To be fair, it was the most encouraging rejection I’d ever received. “Your work is thoroughly entertaining and readable,” wrote the publisher, “and I’m sure it will find a home somewhere!” But these words offered no comfort at first. Instead, I could only recall all the times my writing had been rejected in the past: the Seattle Weekly editors who’d never bothered to respond to my pitches; the travel magazine editors who sent back form rejection letters; the writing group who had rejected me because they didn’t like my excerpt from Temporary Insanity!
GalPal #2 was equally disappointed, but more resilient. Over IM one day, she gave me a stern talking-to.
GalPal #2 says: Well, it’s ridiculous that they rejected it, but you’re going to resubmit it, right? Maybe to one of the big publishers!
Rachel says: Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure I know how to turn this blog into a book anyway. I kind of bullshitted my way through that proposal. You really think I should keep trying?
GalPal #2 says: YES. And don’t take too long. Blogging is a hot commodity in the media right now and it’s only going to get hotter!
She was right and I knew it. I
just needed time to regroup, to think about the best form for my story. I knew, deep down, that my proposal wasn’t as strong as it could have been. I’d glossed over the most important thing: how to transform it from a blog into a coherent story. It’s just that I didn’t really know how to do that yet. In the proposal, I’d talked about using entries from my journal to fill in “narrative gaps.” But it was a half-assed solution. I would need to do better if I wanted to sell it.
So, as I tried to slough off the literary disappointments of my past and move forward, I did the same with my love life. Two weeks after the passionate kiss, I stopped obsessing about what had driven the doctor away. In more sensible moments, I reasoned that maybe his disappearance had nothing whatsoever to do with me. Maybe he was an escaped con who’d fled to Nebraska to avoid the FBI! Or maybe I was a horrible kisser with putrid breath. Either way, it didn’t matter. He was gone.
I consequently got more emotionally attached to the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy. This was a horrible idea, I knew. But in any case, the original plan—as discussed with GalPal #2—had been to sleep with him for a couple months, then see how I felt about him. From that point, I could make a decision about whether to “take things to the next level” or dump him for a more likely prospect. And now, despite myself, I was starting to wonder if maybe there could be a “next level” with him.
There had been no more repeats of the Flirting Incident, although that was because we hardly ever went anywhere except my bed. Our conversations flowed better now than they had in the past. I could see past his gruff, macho exterior to his tender side, and damn if it wasn’t a delectable combination.
I wouldn’t have been encouraged in this area if he didn’t show signs of getting attached to me. One night, after the doctor’s disappearance, we were lying in bed. A sinuous beat with ethereal keyboards drifted through my room. The bedroom was cold, but our two naked bodies together generated a lot of heat. The Li’l Rockclimbing Spy was talking idly about some jobs he’d applied for lately: outdoor education teacher at a local private school, ranger at Kootenay National Park in Canada.
“What?” I said, turning on my side and leaning on my elbow so I could see him better. “Really? You might go to Canada?” I felt a stab of jealousy. Not only for the cute female rangers he might meet or the grateful damsels in distress he would rescue, but because he might go off and have a grand adventure while I was stuck in my windowless hole. Before I’d gotten hired for my full-time job at Empire, I’d applied to spend the summer of ’02 leading bike trips in Europe for high school kids. It had looked like I was going to get hired, too, and then Empire had offered me the job.
I didn’t regret taking the job at Empire. For the first time in my life, I’d made economic stability a priority. And, despite The Great Unpleasantness, work had been a stabilizing force, both emotionally and financially (even if lately stability had felt more like boredom and I’d been spending more time on my blog than on editing documentation).
But I hated being limited in how much vacation I could take. Three weeks a year felt like nothing after the freedom of being a temp. Restlessness and wanderlust was bred into me, after all. When my father was thirty-three and had just recovered from his first heart attack, our lives suddenly changed. We stopped sitting around the house and started climbing mountains in Wales, going to sheepdog competitions in England, walking between remote villages in Italy. Summers we backpacked the high-altitude lakes of the Sierra Nevada and winters we skied the forested foothills below. I grew up knowing earlier than most people that you better have fun while you could. So it was no surprise that I already felt myself chafing at the bonds of a staid, full-time job.
“Well, I don’t know how likely that is,” said the LRS, lying on his back, elbows behind his head. “It wouldn’t be till summer anyway.”
He looked over at me and said, “Wanna come?”
“I wish,” I said, trying to sound equally casual back, as if there weren’t a whole mix of feelings swirling in me right now. Did he actually mean it? Or was he just saying it because he knew I couldn’t come?
I flashed back to the summer before I graduated from college. Josh, the rock climbing counselor I’d fallen so madly in love with at Snow River Camp (where I was the drama counselor), had invited me to go on a three-week backpacking trip he was leading in September. The Feather, as my dad called him, was an outdoor education major at the University of New Mexico and was slated to lead a group of freshmen on an “orientation” trip in the Sangre de Cristo mountains. He was certain he could get me signed on as an assistant.
I wanted nothing more than to go with him, but I had one semester left to go before I graduated. For the two short months we’d been together, he made everything seem possible. He wrote poetry, painted pictures of the desert, and played guitar. I’d felt creatively blocked all through college, but around him I started drawing and writing poetry—things I hadn’t done since I was a kid. He also reignited my love for the outdoors. In college, I’d hung out with a nonoutdoorsy crowd and never once laced up a hiking boot. But Josh took me rock climbing and hiking. I fell back in love with the mountains.
I also fell for the Feather with the wild abandon of someone who’s never had their heart truly broken. Twelve years later I was still thinking about him! But even at the height of my infatuation, I was sensible enough not to bail on school to take this trip with him. Instead we decided that when I graduated, I would move out to Flagstaff and be with him.
Wrong. He came back from his trip a different person. The same person who a month before had written a letter that ended, “I love you with all the heart I own,” now wrote to me, “I’m too young to settle down.” They were the coldest, most painful words anyone had ever said to me in my young life. I went into a yearlong tailspin. The Great Unpleasantness pales in comparison. Then again, that was before the invention of Celexa.
I thought about this as I looked at the LRS sprawled on my bed. He was only two years older than Josh had been when I’d fallen in love with him. I’d beaten myself up over that backpacking trip endless times. What if I had gone? Would he have fallen out of love with me then? It didn’t seem possible. But everyone tried to convince me that Josh would have flaked on me sooner or later, and better sooner than later.
I reached out to touch the LRS’s smooth chest. What if I did it? What if I quit my job, went to Canada with him, and trained to become a ranger? It would be an adventure, that was for sure, and if there was one thing I craved in life besides love and recognition, it was adventure. As my fingers brushed his skin, I felt something sad and sharp inside me. I was not twenty-four anymore. I might be able to pass for it in dim light, but I wasn’t.
“It would be a bad idea for me to quit my job right now,” I said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, as if I weren’t replaying the great romantic tragedy of my youth in my head and wondering if there were some way, somehow, to turn back time. My words came out slightly strangled.
He settled his head back on the pillow and faced the ceiling again. “Oh, well,” he said; there was only the slightest hint of regret under his normal tone. “It’s tough work fighting off those grizzlies out there. You gotta carry a gun, you know.”
But after that conversation, I couldn’t stop thinking about his offer. I knew I was being crazy, but Empire Corp. was not the only place of employment in the world. I could always find another job when I came back, even if it didn’t involve the same copious amounts of money. Other employment would have the added benefit of being Loser- and Loserette-free! Even if things didn’t work out with the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy, at least I wouldn’t be sitting at home living a life of quiet desperation.
The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. The only problem I could see was that I might not be able to plug in a laptop in the remote Canadian wilderness. What if I had a book contract by then? How would I write? Well, hell, I would write my book with a pencil by the light of an oil lamp if I had to, meanwhile fending off t
he occasional grizzly with a handgun! It would be so…Jack London.
The night we went out for dinner at Red Mill Burgers, a week later, I was ready to ask him if he’d been serious about his offer. In my mind, I’d almost quit my job already and donned a bearskin cap. But I never got the chance to bring it up.
Monday, December 9, 2002
9:43 AM Breakup Babe
So, last night, the Li’l Rockclimbing Spy and I went out. This is notable because we don’t ever go out. But I’d been having fond feelings toward the youngster lately, and had some things to discuss with him. I offered to treat him to dinner at the restaurant of his choice, and he chose Red Mill Burgers.
Not a surprising choice for a growing boy. Although he could have chosen something much more pricey and I would have been game. I’d been hoping for something a little more romantic, but this was his night.
I should never have let him choose.
Because who did we see stuffing burgers in their faces as we approached the restaurant?
That’s right. Loser and Loserette.
I slumped over my laptop. Today I’d ended up in the Yuppie Queen Anne neighborhood of all places, at a coffee shop someone had once recommended to me, El Diablo. It was lively and colorful with good coffee and another hot male barista to boot, but I was not in an appreciative mood. I’d driven clear across town just to get away from everything I knew. I couldn’t bear to go into Victrola today looking like a downtrodden and desperate loser. I had to go where no one knew my name. I took one furtive glance around me. This was Sexy Boy’s neighborhood, but as far as I knew, he never went to coffee shops.
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