Chapter 22
The next week goes by in a blur.
I try to be positive. I try to hold tight to the words Olivia has bestowed on me through at least a dozen randomly placed Post-It notes and, if I let her, long monologues over breakfast. I try to remember that there are “other fish in the sea” and that “Baird Books isn’t the only publisher out there” and “Isn’t it just good to know she loved it? Isn’t that just a great new step worth appreciating in this journey?” But at the end of it all there still lies the fact of the matter: my dream publisher turned me down. And I have no contract. And no potential contract in sight.
Because that’s what was also so amazing in it all.
I don’t have a literary agent. I haven’t spent years drafting proposals and querying agents and building up a competitive social platform. I don’t have thousands of people on my newsletter list, itching to hear from me every week and to buy my book the instant it’s out. I have nothing. Nothing.
Except a manuscript.
And nobody is going to want me like I am now.
Baird Books was the golden-ticket moment because I met Claire in person, an opportunity that barely ever happens. Aspiring authors pay thousands of dollars for a fifteen-minute pitch session with an editor at a writers’ conference, and I—fortunate of fortunates—had been given an hour.
And she liked me. And the hook of my story. And was just powerful enough to potentially take on my project without all that other stuff, because she was with Baird Books. They could make anything sell, even hermit authors with no social media accounts and no previously known name.
But me? Savannah Cade, now having to take a long, hard look at what it will really take to get my manuscript in front of reputable literary agents and editors and have anyone take me seriously? It’ll take years. If not decades.
Even so, I’m trying to swallow the idea bit by bit. Like Olivia keeps telling me, “How do you eat an elephant? One spoonful at a time.”
I hate the imagery. I’ve always hated the imagery. But the point is true. And at the end of the day, I do feel joy in the writing.
Writing is what makes me happy. Writing, even, is how I feel I contribute to the world. Reminding people of what’s important. Letting them escape the harsh parts of life, even if just for a few hours. Helping them feel happiness through watching happily-ever-afters unfold. Remembering truths. Recalling their self-worth. Loving others. Living well. Learning.
I want to do that.
So, I will press on. Even if the road ahead is harsh and the journey long, I will keep on.
Seeing the clock strike noon, I push away from my desk. As I slip my laptop into my computer bag, another Post-It note slips out and I bend to retrieve it.
It’s a doodle of a stick figure, smiling while holding a spoon next to a half-eaten elephant.
It’s disturbing, particularly as the stick figure seems so happy about it.
I grin.
“Wanna come grab some Thai with me?” Lyla says, moving for the door. “I’m meeting with Ryan. You could join us.”
When I look up I see the genuine concern in her eyes.
“No, that’s okay,” I say, smiling slightly at the Post-It before giving it a spot next to the growing collection on my desk. “Best he doesn’t remember me and you have to explain yourself,” I say, imagining her manager seeing me stroll up with her to the table.
“Oh, he’d just turn it into some compliment about my ingenuity or other,” she says, waving a hand at the thought. “And besides, he’s bound to run into you with me sometime.”
“How about when you’re officially on tour.” Because to be honest, the moment she signed with Ryan, things have started to happen pretty quickly. She’s already had four bookings. Locally, but still. Four. With real money. And lunches with bubble tea on him. “Then we can reveal the big surprise.”
“Fine,” she says, clearly grinning at the idea of being on tour. “But I’m coming back with eggrolls.”
Picking up my half-drunk, lukewarm coffee in the green mug, I move toward the hall, laptop bag over my shoulder. I no longer expect Sam to show up in the ARC room’s hidden chamber. He’s avoided me so far; I’ve come to realize nothing is going to change.
I shuffle down the hallway, giving friendly smiles to everybody heading off in separate directions for lunch as I do.
Will’s office at the end of the hall is open, a rare sight. He’s been gone a lot the past two weeks, more often than usual, always leaving with no warning and no information about his return. Sending emails to everyone just as much as he would in office, keeping us all on our toes. Maybe that’s just how it’s going to be with him. He’s going to be out of the office, corresponding through clipped emails forever.
My foot hesitates at the bottom step, and I brave a glance through his door.
He’s typing away at his computer, his eyes focused and intense as he stares at the computer through his rectangular glasses. And for a moment I feel that twinge of lost hope and longing.
But then his eyes flicker, and he spots me.
And for one long moment, as people pass by, our eyes lock on each other.
A ghost of a smile passes my lips.
Sure enough, he looks like he’s about to stand, to come over. His phone rings. He ignores it, and for a wonderful second I feel my hopes rise. But then his eyes dart to the number. And, with an exhale and an apologetically bleak smile my way, he turns and takes the call.
I hesitate a moment longer, but as his words string on and on without any hint of ending, I move up the stairs.
And while I would normally let that thought linger through the day, I can’t help noticing, as my feet pad past bookshelves among bookshelves, the little glow at the end of the room. For the first time the filing cabinet is wide open, revealing the little cove inside.
Hurrying, protectively even, I step into the room, my thoughts pressing me on.
Did someone else discover it?
Why is it unprotected?
But as I quickly assess the empty room and shut the door behind me and feel my pulse start to slow, I notice the note in the center of the floor. I move to the rug, pick up the piece of paper. All it says is: Did you get an offer on the manuscript?
I flip it over, but nothing.
Hastily, I scribble an answer. No. They turned it down. But even so, I can’t tell you how much your help has meant to me. Thank you again. Truly. And . . . welcome back.
For half a minute I think about leaving more, writing more, asking how he’s feeling about everything and trying to open up the conversation again. But then I still myself. Remind myself of the first rule he made: stick to the point.
And so I do.
I hope my response is emotionless enough, and as far away from the topic of our relationship enough, to beg him farther into the start of a new conversation. Though where this conversation would go, I don’t know. But does it matter? Not really. I’m just glad he’s back.
Even the room looks glad he’s back.
There’s a pot of brewed coffee in the corner, full of sweet, dark caffeine, and I refill my mug. Take a sip. Grab the lighter and light the candle.
Stand back and admire its glow.
Not everything is right right now.
In fact, a lot is wrong.
But even so, I can’t help but feel a little glow as I sit on my beanbag and get to work on the long, long trek that has only begun of writing my own book proposal. All the while, the room glows around me.
And in that moment, I pause to look around, appreciating the journey.