Chapter 17 #3
“What makes you think I have…that? Is your weird hobby diagnosing strangers with conditions?”
Opal pointed at a frame on the wall. “Sorry, kid. Real doctor. Psychologist specializing in neurotypical diagnoses for forty years.”
“Okay, but like, no offense, were you any good at your job? Because your people skills are kinda iffy.”
She gestured to an entire shelf of awards and certificates. “I wasn’t good. I was the best. Now I’m old and retired, so I don’t have to let the patient find their own answers. So I’m telling you. You got ADHD. Now go do something about it.”
“I came here to talk to you about writing. I don’t know what to do with this.” My brain was swirling like bathtub water down a drain.
“Read the books. Take one of the eight million online assessments. I bet you a hundred bucks that your score is off the charts. And given that I’ve worked with a few hundred ADHD patients, I wouldn’t bet against me if I were you.”
I closed my eyes for a second and opened them again. “Are you saying there might be a reason why I am the way I am? Like I’m not actually stupid and irresponsible?”
The note of hope in my voice sounded pathetic to my own ears.
Opal took pity on me and pulled up one of her dining chairs.
“Look, girls and women are usually diagnosed late because their symptoms look different. Which usually means you grow up with exasperated parents and teachers who think you’re just not applying yourself.
It creates this whole pain-in-the-ass shame spiral.
Blah blah blah. Bottom line: It’s treatable. Read the books.”
“So there’s actually something I can do about this…mess that is me?”
“Yep. Lucky you, having one of the most treatable chronic conditions in the world.”
I scoffed. “Lucky me.”
“Read the books. Go talk to someone who isn’t me, because I’m retired and I don’t want to do the work with anyone. I’ve done the work. I’m over the work. Okay?”
“Okaaay.”
“Good. Now, back to me.” She heaved herself out of the chair.
I looked up from the books. “Back to you what?”
“I didn’t drag you here out of the kindness of my heart, you know.
I’m not some weird do-gooder diagnosing strangers and giving them hope for the future.
I’m old. But maybe I’m not ready to be completely invisible.
” She crossed to the console under the TV and used the hook of her cane to pull open the bottom drawer.
I craned my neck to see what was inside, crossing my fingers it wasn’t a scrapbook collection. “Oh my God. Are those…” I jumped out of the recliner and dropped to my knees on the floor.
“I spent forty years trying to fix people in real life. Sometimes it was easier to make them up and then fix them on the page.”
“You have a literal drawer full of manuscripts. May I?” I asked, spirit fingers at the ready.
“I’m already regretting this.”
I was too busy gathering fat manuscripts in my arms. Some of them were yellowed with age on the old printer paper with the perforated borders.
“How many?” I asked.
“Six. Well, five and a half. It’s whaddaya call it when you smash epic fantasy together with romance?”
“Romantasy,” I whispered reverently. I was already skimming page one. “Opal, I could kiss you right now.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a fucking catch. Let’s keep this professional,” she said, flopping back down in a chair.
I looked up. “What made you change your mind?”
She blew out a breath. “I’ve been successful at a lot of things in life. Maybe I don’t want to fail this close to the end.”
“Jesus, you’re not dying, are you?” Fulfilling the dreams of a dying woman was a lot of pressure.
“We’re all dying.”
“Then maybe you should enjoy living while you’re doing it. You’re what? Seventy?”
“Seventy-three.”
“Seventy-three is the new fifty-three. Stop acting like you’re on death’s welcome mat.”
“When I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you,” Opal said.
“Look, I know I’m the last person to give advice about failure, but—wait, that’s not true. I know failure better than anyone. And this isn’t failure. This is perseverance, and if they’re a quarter as good as what you read in class, you’re not going to fail.”
She harrumphed. “It’s just a hobby.”
“Opal, no one writes five and a half entire novels as just a hobby. You’re an author.”
“No. I’m a retired old lady who just wants to be left alone,” she said with a derisive sniff.
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have opened the drawer for me,” I pointed out. “Now, how long does it take you to write one of these babies? When do you think you’ll finish the one you’re working on?”
“How in the hell should I know?”
“Well, you wrote five of ’em, so ballpark it for me.”
She stared down at her feet. “I don’t know, okay? I was writing for pure entertainment purposes, but I’ve been having an inspiration problem.”
“Pfft. That’s my specialty. How long have you been blocked?”
“Four years.”
“Okaaay,” I drawled. “Can I take these and read them?”
“Fine. But do me a favor and use some young-person technology to scan them and back them up in a cloud somewhere. The first couple are only in hard copy.”
Shit. Could I be trusted with that? “I’ll guard them with my life,” I promised. “Are we done with your thing?”
“Why?”
“Because I have some more questions about my thing.”
“Never should have opened my damn mouth,” she muttered.
“It’s just I’ve been so bad at so many things over the years. If I get this stuff figured out, will I get better?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Well, you’re the professional, Opal. And I was today years old when I learned—rudely, by the way—that adult women can be diagnosed with an attention disorder.”
“Some people get better at some things. And some things you shouldn’t waste your time on bettering.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Stop wasting your time berating yourself for not doing things you can’t do.
You know how many things I can’t do? Do you see me having a self-worth crisis because I can’t change the oil in my car or make a damn pie crust from scratch?
No. Because I’m fucking great at a bunch of other things, and that’s where I’m going to spend my time and energy. ”
“Okay. Then be great at writing books I can sell.”
“You’re like a terrier with a Snausage.”
“Thank you for noticing. But also, aren’t we supposed to work on our weak points?” I pressed.
Opal threw up her hands. “What the hell for? Why spend time and energy bringing yourself up to mediocre when you could spend that same time and energy getting exponentially better at what you’re already good at? What’s going to get you better results?”
“I know I shouldn’t be saying this after you so innocently agreed to let me hold on to your manuscripts, but I’m a failure at adulting.”
“Who gives a shit? Nobody is good at everything. What are you good at?”
I blinked. “I don’t know.”
She threw a scratchy throw pillow at me. It bounced off my face. “Yes, you do.”
“Ow! Okay, I’m good with people. I–I’m good at predicting what’s going to happen.
Uh. Um, I’m good at focusing on things…but only if they’re interesting.
I’m good at coming up with ideas. Oh, and I’m good at looking good, which is probably not a skill to be bragging about, but you’re stressing me out, and I’m basically just babbling at this point. ”
“So do what you’re good at, and give the crap you’re not good at to someone else.”
“I don’t know what you think a literary agent gets paid but—”
“Outsource it, or make it interesting.”
“I bet you were terrifying as a therapist.”
That got half a smile out of her. “Are we gonna seal this deal with a drink or what?”
“It’s eleven thirty in the morning,” I said.
“What’s your point?”