The Roughest Draft(7)
I called Chris. Not out of some instinct for his comfort or whatever. We weren’t dating, wouldn’t be for several months. I just wanted to cancel the meeting. Pretend I had the flu, or wasn’t stomaching the sushi from the reception dinner with Hollywood agents the night before. I didn’t care. I guess he heard the waver in my voice or the sob waiting in my throat because he spoke calmly instead of wondering why I wanted to cancel. He said, Today isn’t your entire life. Today is one day of your job. Do your job the best you can, then do the next thing. Okay?
In short, it worked. I did what he said. I did the meeting. I called my Uber. In my hotel I wrote four interview question responses I hadn’t finished. I had a sandwich. I read Celeste Ng’s new book and focused on her use of prepositional phrases. When I got in bed, I felt calmer, more cohesive. The next day, I did the same thing.
Chris made me feel like I could be okay. I wanted very much to return to being okay and with him, I could. In the years that followed of his encouragement, patience, and support, I was, or close.
I wondered if Nathan would’ve done the same. I’ll never know.
I love vanilla ice cream. I do.
Right now, however, my fiancé is watching me with impassive, resentful eyes. “Why would I think you respect me, Katrina?” It is pointedly rhetorical. “You won’t let me sell books for you,” he continues.
The realization dawns on me where this conversation’s headed. “Chris, I don’t have books for you to sell. If I did, believe me, you’d be my pick. You’re always my pick,” I say delicately, struggling to keep my voice in a reasonable register. He only rolls his eyes. It’s what pushes me over the edge. I stand up, yanking my jacket from the couch cushions. “My decision to stop writing has nothing to do with you. You know that.” Irritation wraps around my words. His audacity, that he would make this about himself, is unnerving.
“You have ideas, though,” he says as I walk over to the hall closet and shove my jacket inside. The hangers rattle, and I still them with my free hand.
“Nothing I want to write,” I say, holding in my indignation. It’s not untrue, though I know I’m hiding the nuances of the problem. I’ve had concepts for new novels, characters I’ve daydreamed of. I just don’t know if I want them published.
While I’m more confident I could face the fear I felt when Only Once was coming out, I’m not certain I want to. Not certain it’s worth it. I enjoy my life. I enjoy perusing wedding venue possibilities and presenting the occasional writing workshop for an MFA program or high school class. I enjoy the freedom I have to read, even to outline in my head or draft pages nobody’ll ever read. I don’t know if I want to catapult myself once more into the heights of publishing, only to wrack myself with the fear of falling.
I face Chris on the other end of the room, finding him watching me. He’s discarded his laptop next to him. “Why are we even talking about this?” I’m getting the uneasy feeling this conversation was planned, scheduled into his day with his other meetings and obligations. Lunch with editor. Call with Vincent. Guilt-trip fiancée.
Chris is a chaser, which I do respect in my partner, the way he will fix his gaze on the horizon until the sunlight sears his eyes. He comes from high-pressure parents who live outside New York City in a house with a stone driveway. Every minute of his childhood was spent in competition with his older and younger brothers, and I remember Chris telling me he and his siblings were the only kids whose parents would bring them to back-to-school nights so the Calloway children could hear their teachers’ feedback in person. Psychotic.
The problem is, Chris wants me to chase with him. Chase bestseller lists, chase publishing prizes and other prestigious recognition. Chase a solo career. For me, the stability I found in our relationship was the destination. For him, it was only one stop on the journey somewhere shinier and sleeker and more.
While I’ve known deep down it irks him I gave up writing, he’s never pressed me on it. Until now, anyway. As my partner, if not my agent, I assumed he understood. I head for the kitchen, needing aspirin.
“I’ve had a call with Liz,” he says.
It halts me. Liz is the editor at Parthenon Books who bought Connecting Flights and Only Once. When she and I last spoke, I told her I was taking time off from writing. I round on Chris, not liking his fixed stare. He’s serious. “Oh yeah?” I ask hesitantly.
“I raised the possibility—”
“Why?” I cut him off. “There is no possibility.”
“You’re technically under contract with Parthenon,” he replies, like I hoped he wouldn’t. When Parthenon bought Only Once, it was a two-book deal, meaning they also bought another yet-to-be-written book from me and Nathan and paid us an advance. We discussed ideas, worked up a synopsis, but we never wrote the book. Parthenon never pushed because the advance was next to nothing compared to the huge earnings of Only Once.
They’ll never cancel the contract, I know they won’t. Only Once continues to pull in good sales, though not quite like they once were. While the film in development with Miramount probably won’t ever happen—they often don’t, Chris cautioned me—it would return Nathan and me to prominence. Parthenon doesn’t want to pass up the possibility.
Nevertheless, our deal has left Nathan and me and our publisher in a complicated, motionless dance. They won’t force us to write. It’s not unheard-of for successful authors to take several years between books, and there’s no writing police they could have bang down our doors demanding pages. Nathan and I won’t cancel the contract, for different reasons. Nathan is a workaholic and would never pass up the opportunity to write something. I haven’t had the heart to tell my literary agent–fiancé it’s never going to happen. As long as the contract isn’t canceled, it’s left our publisher with the rights to the next Freeling–Van Huysen book. If there ever is a next Freeling–Van Huysen book.