Chapter 11
It’s not until I’m sitting in the airport on Tuesday that I think of all the things Julien and I should have discussed before now.
I’m not completely ignorant on how writing conferences and pitch appointments go, but I’ve never attended one in person as an author and I sure as shootin’ have never attended one as an industry professional.
It would’ve been nice to have a more complete picture on how the appointments were going to go specifically instead of the vague idea I have in my head.
Also, now that he’s done a bit of research, does Julien have more of an idea on what type of story he’s looking for Squire to acquire?
A little more direction would be nice is all I’m saying.
But I haven’t heard much from him since our talk at Signal Point.
To be fair, we’ve both been busy. Or at least I know I have been.
I’ve spent as many hours as I could at the library, walking Evangeline and Hayley through the details of running the programs for the rest of the month.
I’ve tried to spend as much time with my little patrons as possible as well.
It’s been a bittersweet last few days, to say the least.
As I’m sitting here, I’m also wondering if I should’ve let Julien know that I’ve never flown before.
There are definitely feelings happening inside me right now as I sit at the gate two hours early like the rule follower that I am that have nothing to do with wondering how the conference is going to go.
There aren’t any other passengers at the gate yet, including Julien, so maybe I should’ve taken into consideration that Chattanooga is a small airport and getting through security took me almost no time at all.
Oh well. Now I get to sit here and consider if the aforementioned feelings coalescing in my chest are excitement or anxiety.
Right now, it’s a whole Schrodinger’s cat thing.
You know, the scientist who put a hypothetical cat in a box with some poison and after a while said cat could be considered both simultaneously alive and dead, but you won’t know for certain until you open the box.
I’m sure there’s more to it than that. The guy was a famous Austrian physicist, after all.
But considering my knowledge of his thought experiment comes from The Big Bang Theory reruns, I’m good with having a grasp on just the gist.
The point is, I don’t think I’ll know whether I’m excited or nervous about flying until I actually get on the plane and up in the air. Although by then there isn’t much I’ll be able to do if these feelings turn out to be a fear of flying, is there?
I need to get my mind off of this as well as the added pressure I’ve been feeling ever since Signal Point.
Bending down, I rummage through my personal bag and pull out my notebook and a pen.
The airport is relatively quiet, but a low buzz of activity has never bothered me before.
In fact, I find it creatively energizing.
As I open my composition notebook and turn the pages to where I left off, I can picture my mother’s smug expression.
As if I am currently proving her point that I still write and that my stories are what can save Squire.
Except my writing isn’t a career direction for me anymore.
It’s a hobby, a creative outlet. Like painting or crocheting or, I don’t know, gardening.
One doesn’t have to make money with something they enjoy.
In fact, I probably wouldn’t enjoy it if I did turn it into a job.
Because then my words would be subject to scrutiny, bad reviews, and rejections.
What Mom doesn’t know is that Mr. King isn’t the only publisher I ever sent any of my stories to.
I had thought like her once too. That years of studying the craft had maybe grown my skills.
Besides, even the greats got rejected a time or two.
So, I’d submitted a book proposal to a few other editors.
Entered a couple of contests. But when all the feedback came back with varying degrees of kindness wrapped around the same message that I’m not good enough, I decided that maybe it was time to listen to the professionals.
Even after that, I couldn’t not write, though.
Plots would develop in my mind, and characters would start talking to each other, the dialogue zipping back and forth in my head, and it would be all I could think about until I got it all down on the page.
Notebooks were filled, and complete books were written.
Occasionally I’ve considered self-publishing, bypassing industry gatekeepers, so to speak.
But that takes money I don’t have, and, I admit, I’m afraid readers aren’t going to like my plots and characters any more than the contest judges and editors did.
But Mom was wrong on one account. I’m not the only one who reads my work.
The kids in the writing circle at the library do.
I can’t ask them to be open and vulnerable and share their work if I’m not willing to do the same myself.
It’s probably a little sad how much their excitement and overall gushing is a balm to my injured pride.
At least I have a couple of fans. Even if they are my parents and mentees.
I flip back to the beginning of the last chapter I wrote and read to familiarize and immerse myself back into the story.
I’ve been writing Layla and Max books for so long now that their characters are second nature to me.
Siblings of archaeologist parents, they stumble into a secret chamber with an indecipherable inscription along one wall.
When they go to brush off the ancient hieroglyphics, they’re pulled into a magical portal and transported to some of the most significant historical events where they must not only survive but also figure out a way to get back home.
The genre is a mash-up of magical realism, historical fiction, and adventure.
If I was pressed, I’d say the books could be compared to Magic Tree House and I Survived, but I’d hate to do that because those two series are so good and beloved and I could never put my own writing on the same shelves as those authors’ works.
I get so absorbed in the world of 252 BCE aboard a Roman quinquereme during the First Punic War, where Max and Layla have been pressed as two of the 280 oarsmen in Rome’s fight against Carthage for control over Sicily, that I lose all track of time.
A minute could have passed or an hour, I don’t know.
All I know is that Layla’s secret about her true gender is in danger of being discovered, which could make the siblings’ already perilous predicament even more dire.
“What has you so engrossed?” A deep voice from over my shoulder penetrates my concentration and kickstarts my heart rate.
I startle and whirl around, my notebook falling to the floor. Julien straightens as he holds up his hands in a placating motion.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I said your name, but you were so focused that you didn’t hear me.” He looks curiously down at my notebook. “What were you writing?”
I swallow and will my heart back to its normal rhythm. I pick up my notebook and return it to my bag. “Nothing important. Just jotting down some things that I was thinking about.”
He doesn’t look all that convinced. Even so, he rounds the row of seats I’m occupying and settles himself one down from me. Now that my head isn’t buried in my journal pages, I notice that the waiting area has filled up.
“We should start boarding in about ten minutes.” As soon as the words are out of Julien’s mouth, the gate attendant makes a similar announcement over the loudspeakers.
I may have never flown before, but that doesn’t mean I’m not privy to the size of airplane bathrooms. If I can spare myself the joy of trying to maneuver my body in an enclosure the size of a matchbox, I will.
“I’m going to use the restroom before we board.” TSA makes it pretty clear that no one is to leave their bags unattended and should keep them on their person at all times, so I slip the strap of my bag over my shoulder and head for the nearest women’s restroom.
There’s a small line, but I manage to make it through and back to the gate before the first guests are called to board.
Julien and I join the queue for our boarding group.
My boarding pass is on my phone, so every time the screen dims and times out, I tap it back awake.
My fingers fidget with the corners of my phone case, and I can’t stop shifting my weight between my feet.
“Nervous flyer?” Julien asks.
I glance up at him. “I don’t know. I’ve never flown before.”
He offers me a reassuring smile. “You have nothing to worry about. I promise.”
“That may be comforting if you were in any sort of position to offer such a promise, but considering you have absolutely no power over the outcome of our flight, your words mean nothing.”
A surprised laugh punches out of his chest.
I give him a look out of the corner of my eye while also watching the gate attendant scan boarding passes. “Besides, I don’t know if what I’m feeling is nerves. It could be excitement.” I take a step forward as the line moves.
He considers me. “Do you often mistake the feelings of excitement and anxiety?”
I spare him another glance. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” His lips tilt upward.
“Like you find me amusing. Feelings get mislabeled all the time. Think about it. What are the physical manifestations of both nervousness and excitement?” I tick them off on my fingers.
“Fast pulse, dry mouth, change in breathing, feeling the need to move, heightened senses. Sometimes a person can be nervous, excited, both, or unsure of which.”
He continues to regard me with the barest hint of a smile. “Do you always catalogue what your body is doing in order to label what you’re feeling?”