by Lolita Files
She was at Kittell Press now, but had gotten her start as a temp at PaleFire Publishing in 1989 after lying about her age to get the job. It was hard in the beginning, sometimes unbearable. Paltry pay, barely enough to survive on, and lots of filing, coffee-fetching, and copying. Entry-level employees were being paid more these days, somewhere between twenty-seven and thirty thousand dollars a year, but when Beryl entered the business, her pay was rotten. In the earlier days of publishing, editors usually came from families of social standing and wealth. Low salary wasn’t an issue. Someone with a background as sketchy as Beryl’s would have never stood a chance, but times had changed. Unfortunately, when she began, the salaries hadn’t. She made only enough to buy food, pay the utilities, and cover less than half the rent. She had to take on a night job at Kinko’s to make up the rest. When a group of publishing houses filed a copyright infringement suit against Kinko’s for the company’s unauthorized use of material, Beryl quickly quit. She didn’t want anything to jeopardize her career plans in publishing. She got a job waitressing at Houlihan’s to make up the rest of her rent.
After three initial years that saw her going from temping to well-liked receptionist to clerical work in the advertising, legal, art, and marketing departments, she finally landed a job as an assistant for Keri Porter, an editor who was on the fast track within the company. Beryl got the job on the recommendation of Keri’s former assistant. The girl lived in Beryl’s building and, while they weren’t friends, they’d had a sort of smile-and-nod acquaintanceship that was taken a step further when the two ran into each other while doing laundry. Niceties were exchanged. Idle chitchat was made. Beryl happily prattled about how much she loved publishing and wanted to be an editor someday. The assistant confessed that she was planning to leave. Her boyfriend had gotten a job in Chicago and asked her to move with him. She was going.
“I know you don’t know me that well,” Beryl had said, suddenly emboldened, “but do you think maybe, since you’re leaving, I could get a shot at working for Keri?”
“Uh, um, I don’t know,” stammered the assistant, surprised by the request. “Once I give notice, Keri might already—”
“But I’m a really hard worker. Really. You can ask anybody. I know my way around the company. I’m loyal, I’m committed, I’m diligent. I just want a chance, just a chance…please?”
The assistant couldn’t get in a word as Beryl threw herself into earnest begging.
“Would you? Could you? I’m not saying you have to talk me up or anything. Just, you know, maybe see if I could get an interview with her. It would mean everything to me!”
“I’ll ask, but I can’t promise—”
“Oh, thank you!” Beryl said, throwing her arms around the girl’s neck.
The assistant left the Laundromat to go for a cup of soup. She asked Beryl to watch her clothes. When she returned, they were fluffed and folded.
“Whoa.”
“I had all this nervous energy,” Beryl said. “I’m so excited you’re going to do this for me.”
The assistant arranged the meeting.
Keri met Beryl. Keri liked Beryl, particularly her enthusiasm, which seemed inexhaustible. In very short order, Beryl became Keri’s new assistant.
Six months in, Keri gave her four manuscripts at once and asked for her gut opinion of them as a reader, not as someone in the business. They were books she’d inherited from an editor who’d left the company. No rush, Keri had said. Beryl could get to them over the next month or so. Eager Beryl saw her opening and plunged headlong into the project. She read all four in one weekend, and returned Monday morning with typed pages of commentary and editorial suggestions, the opposite of what Keri had asked for, but all of which the editor could see made sense.
All four books, published a year later with Beryl’s two cents intact, went on to do well. Two were women’s fiction, debut novels that made for great watercooler chatter and fun reading at the beach. One, written by a pretty but less well known CNN reporter, was a self-help piece called Fear of Crying. The book instructed women to wail more in order to free themselves of negative emotional weight from failed relationships. It was a modest hit among the single hand-wringing set. The last, a technothriller by a talented mid-level author whose last book had sold below expectation, became a runaway success that topped the New York Times fiction list for sixteen straight weeks.
Keri received a sizable bonus for the book’s performance, and she shared with the publisher the value of Beryl’s input. A week later, Anna Barber, then head of PaleFire, called Beryl to her office.
“So you’ve been with us four years,” she said, going over her file.
“Almost five,” Beryl answered with enthusiasm, awed by Barber’s presence. The woman was one of the most formidable figures in the book world.
Barber continued examining the paperwork. Beryl’s knee shook violently as she tried to keep herself composed. She was grateful her knee wasn’t in plain view. She waited while the woman kept reading. Finally, Barber closed the file.
“Have you been going to college part-time?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Not at all?”
“No, ma’am.”
The chief executive sat back in her chair.
“Beryl, do you realize how competitive publishing is? Four years, almost five, as you put it, is long enough for you to be aware of the culture of this business. We have summa cum laude graduates from Ivy League schools doing menial labor just for a shot at an editorial position. It takes years sometimes to make any progress. Most people can’t cut it and take their skills where they believe they’ll be better compensated. This industry, more than anything, is a labor of love.”
“Yes.”
“I went to Barnard,” Barber said. “Keri has a degree from Harvard. PaleFire takes the business of literature very seriously. We respect the word and those who have a command of it, and we do our very best to expose the world to the best material possible from the best writers, under the care of an excellent editorial staff. More importantly, we want to sell books. Lots of them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because you asked to see me.”
“No, why are you here? What are you doing in publishing?”
Beryl stared blankly at the woman. Barber waited for her to say something. A good ten seconds ticked by, and still Beryl was silent.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
“Oh. Sorry. I kinda zoned out.”
Anna Barber was not one for games.
“Beryl, this is your life. You’re sitting in front of the head of the company and you ‘zone out’? That’s not acceptable.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Mrs. Barber, really,” Beryl explained. “I feel honored just to get to talk to you like this. I would never take an opportunity like this for granted.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I called you in here because Keri thought it was important that I know who you were. I make it a point of being aware of all our employees, but Keri insists there’s something about you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barber.”
“So again, Beryl, I’m going to ask you, why are you here? Why would someone who didn’t finish high school or choose to go to college seek a career in publishing?”
“Because I love books, Mrs. Barber. I read all the time. My whole life has been built around the promise I find inside of books.”
Anna Barber fought back an approving smile.
“Then you can’t stop learning, Beryl. If you’re going to be in publishing, and I mean really be a part of it, you’ll do your best to learn as much as you can. You’ll read, and you’ll read, and then you’ll read some more. You’ll meet people. You’ll memorize Publishers Weekly and Booklist. You’ll be aware of every new book about to come out and you’ll read every magazine you can find, watching for emerging trends, trying to capitalize on them long before they’ve trickled down to the masses so that you can have
books on the hottest subjects, ready to deliver to the consumer. I’ve accomplished a lot as a woman in this business because I care, truly care, about the line of work I’m in. It’s rewarding work, but it’s also very challenging, and the less educated you are, the more uneven the playing field is going to be.”
“Is college mandatory?” Beryl asked.
“No, but it definitely doesn’t hurt.”
“Is high school? Are you saying there’s no way I can learn this business from the ground up, the way I’ve been doing, and reach the levels I’m confident I can achieve?”
The publisher took a deep breath, weighing how to answer.
“I have to admit, Beryl, I don’t come across too many people in this business without degrees. Most are academics. English majors, liberal arts.”
“But I’m good at this,” Beryl said. “I know what makes a story work. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.”
Anna Barber contemplated the slight girl sitting across from her.
“Keri says it was your hard work that helped put The Sun Giant at the top of the Times bestseller list.”
Beryl smiled graciously.
“She said you even offered good marketing ideas.”
“The author’s six feet eight and really tan and fit. And he’s from California. It just seemed to make sense to take advantage of that as we promoted the book.”
“It made a lot of sense. Dollars and cents.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“She said you were a pretty good writer. I was impressed, considering your limited training.”
“Keri showed you my writing?”
“Of course. I asked to see it.”
Beryl glanced at the floor, gathered her confidence, and met Barber’s eyes with her own. If she was going to convince this woman she belonged, her bearing needed to reflect that. This was a golden moment that she didn’t want to ruin.
Anna Barber made a groaning sound, like she was tired.
“Well, young lady, it looks like all your helpfulness has put us in a bit of a bind.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Barber?”
“All right, first things first. Stop with the ‘ma’am.’ I’m not that old.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry. Okay.”
“‘Okay’ is much better. Now, it seems our six-foot-eight bestselling author is asking for you specifically to edit his next book. He says that’s the only way he’ll do another contract. I knew we should have pinned him down to a three-book deal. These mid-list authors sometimes get a little cocky when they get a breakout book.”
Beryl was simultaneously horrified and excited. It was February 1994, a time when it wasn’t yet in her to do whatever it took to get to the next level.
“What does Keri think? Is she mad? Does she want you to fire me?”
“Of course she’s not angry. And we’re not just going to throw you to the wolves. But this will be a moment of truth for you, Beryl. I’m doing this on the strength of Keri’s confidence, and because after talking to you, I sense a spark of determination that could really turn into something bright.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barber!”
“Keep in mind that you will be closely monitored. Just prove us right for taking this chance with you. And don’t worry about Keri. She’s a pretty happy camper right now. She got a nice bonus for how well The Sun Giant has been performing, and now she’s getting the O.J. book.”
“What O.J. book?” Beryl asked.
“O.J. Simpson. We did a deal with him last year for a book that we plan to release this summer. I was going to edit it myself, but I’ve decided to assign it to Keri.”
“That’s great.”
Barber smiled.
“We’re really excited about it. It’s called The Cutting Edge of Success: Principles of Leadership the O.J. Way. We’re positioning it with a Stephen Covey–type feel, with a whole line of Cutting Edge spin-offs…journaling books, calendars, an audio series. We expect it will appeal to a very broad market. There’ll be a huge rollout with lots of press, and O.J.’s agreed to spend the next two years helping us develop the line. It’ll be great. He’s such an American folk hero.”
On May 15, The Cutting Edge of Success began shipping to stores nationwide.
On June 9, three days before the official pub date, there was an elaborate book-launching party at the penthouse of a wealthy art collector on the Upper East Side. O.J. stopped in on his way from a board meeting in Connecticut.
June 12 was the slice heard round the world.
On June 14, PaleFire issued a global memorandum to stores regarding pulling the unfortunately titled books.
On June 17, O.J. and A.C. were in a white Bronco, doing the hokey-pokey down the 405.
On June 20, Keri Porter had had her fill. She resigned, citing her and her husband’s desire to focus on starting a family.
On June 27, Keri’s authors, to nearly everyone’s surprise, were reassigned to a novice—Beryl Unger—who was quickly becoming an in-house enigma.
The no-degreed, no-GED’d Beryl was officially made an editor at PaleFire.
The initial backlash was enormous. Editors who felt they had much stronger clout and qualifications resented the fact that an uneducated former temp had encroached upon their hard-fought territory. Beryl was faced with a rash of cold shoulders, stony stares, and bitter whisperings. At first she attempted to win favor with treats. Fresh-baked cookies were followed by bottles of homemade jams and chutneys. Pound cakes. Fudge. Everything she brought in was delicious. Her goodies were happily accepted. Beryl, however, remained unhappily ignored.
In time, she stopped trying, determined to earn the respect of her peers through sheer excellence and commitment. She was grateful to Keri Porter and Anna Barber for having given her a chance. But she really had O.J. to thank for accelerating her career.
And what a career it was, with year after year of award-winning authors and commercial successes. She remained at PaleFire another five years, until 1999, when Kittell Press stole her away. Four of her top authors followed her when she changed houses.
Beryl’s life was wonderful, give or take a few things, which was why she was now lying on a couch at the office of Dr. Ripkin, and had been lying on his couch for the past sixteen years.
What Anna Barber and Keri Porter and all the authors that came and went in between didn’t know about Beryl was that she suffered from OCD—obsessive-compulsive disorder. It wasn’t the kind that manifested itself in small ways like washing her hands too much or checking locked doors twenty times too many. Hers was on a grander scale, a hyper pursuit marked by extreme cycles of perfectionism. This also explained her reaction to the task Keri had given her as an assistant to read the four manuscripts over the course of a month. Beryl had pulled it all off in a weekend because of the severity of her OCD.
She would immerse herself in projects, devoting days, weeks, sometimes months of intense preparation. At the eleventh hour she would panic, second-guess herself, destroy all her hard work, and start again. Ripkin recognized this as a coping strategy, of course, born of tragic loss and the fear that comes with it, but it had threatened her ability to function normally, which was one of the reasons she’d first sought help. Beryl understood that the extreme nature of her actions might be considered self-destructive, even though she didn’t think it was wrong to pursue perfection to its absolute. This was Ripkin’s biggest hurdle. It was difficult to effect behavioral change if the patient didn’t consider the behavior a problem.
“Things can always be better,” she said. “Why settle for mediocrity when all it takes for excellence is just applying yourself a little?”
Her eyes would shine with a Mooniefied glow, so deep was her optimism and conviction.
“I like things how I like them. No one can fault me for that.”
And then she’d smile. Always the smile.
The doctor knew it wasn’t about things being better. For Beryl, better would never be enough.
It had been
many years of dealing with the OCD, a problem that, on its own, was challenging enough.
But little Beryl was a loaded pistol. A double-edged sword of sweetness with two secrets too many.
She was also narcoleptic.
Ripkin had met with greater success controlling the narcolepsy than he had the OCD. There was no cure for the neurological sleeping disorder, but through collaboration with a sleep clinic she had visited under an assumed name, he was able to prescribe a cocktail of medications that allowed her to deal with the narcolepsy without having to tell anyone about her condition. No one besides him knew she was clinically obsessive-compulsive, either. People just thought she was a tad hyper.
After trying a variety of medicines, Ripkin switched her to the combination she had been using for the past year, with excellent results. She was taking 200 milligrams daily of modafinil—brand name Provigil—a newer psychostimulant that kept her awake. The drug was so effective, it was becoming increasingly popular among nonnarcoleptics, who used it as a lifestyle drug to get more mileage out of their day. It didn’t cause jitteriness like amphetamines, didn’t affect nighttime sleep, and there was little or no need for the body to make up lost sleep.
The modafinil even improved Beryl’s memory, which had already been close to photographic. One of the keys to her professional success was her ability to recall a face, name, or factoid in an instant. The drug brightened her sunny disposition. Turned it into nuclear euphoria. Beryl was the kind of person who was so damn happy, it was borderline annoying. Her life was all sunny days. She was hope ad nauseum.
In addition to the modafinil, she was taking 100 milligrams of a tri-cyclic antidepressant called clomipramine, brand name Anafranil. She obviously didn’t need it for depression. The drug was supposed to serve two purposes: control her obsessive-compulsive disorder and suppress cataplexies, which were the sudden loss of muscle control that narcoleptics sometimes had after experiencing strong emotions.