Chapter 1 #2
“I’m one of those rarities, someone whose middle-class family has lived in the Bay Area for decades.”
We were here first, before the tech companies settled and changed the price of everything from housing to gas.
I pick up a paper with handwritten scribbles all over it.
If this is his penmanship its atrocious.
And were this truly a Jane Austen novel, I’d tell faux Mr. Darcy, “Pray tell, is this handwriting or hieroglyphics? Mayhap you can do better or risk offending a possible suitor with your careless efforts at penmanship.”
“I need help organizing this”—he waves his hand in the direction of papers, books, pens, pencils, laptop, and other detritus of a working writer—“into something cohesive I can use.”
I almost say, “Fear not, I will handily execute this,” but decide it’s time to abandon Jane Austen impressions.
“No problem,” I say. “I’ve got you.”
“What about hours?” Ryan says. “They’re flexible, but I want to know when to expect you.”
“Mornings around eight? I’ll bring the coffee!”
“The only exception is if I’ve had a rough night and stayed up all night writing. That happens. You don’t want to be around me then.”
“Um, okay. Does that happen…often?”
“More than I’d like.” He shakes his head, like angsty Mr. Darcy, regretting his life choices. He has floppy and wavy hair, a little longer in the front, and a lock of it falls over one side before he brushes it away.
“When do you start writing your book?”
“Soon,” he says. “My method is research first, then write the book. It takes me about nine months altogether, and yes, I realize that’s how long it takes to grow a baby.”
I smother a laugh in my effort to remain serious while privately thinking of more Jane Austen references.
“What do you write? The post said literary fiction.”
“World War II spy novels,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “I heard you say you love history. What’s your favorite period?”
I don’t know if this is a trick question but there’s really no other way I can answer honestly. “Regency.”
“Of course,” he says, and I’m not going to take this personally even if he sounds disappointed.
In his spare time, I imagine he makes fun of genre fiction as do most highbrow types. Well, to each his own.
There’s a knock on the door and the professor’s brow furrows.
“Should I…should I get it?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
Head down, he marches toward the door and a few seconds later I hear him say, “The position is filled.”
I look out the window and see a guy, probably a university student, getting back on his bicycle.
My day is made!
When he joins me again, my hands are clasped together. “Really? I got the job?”
“Well, as Henry said, I’d be an idiot not to hire you.” He shrugs. “And you got here first.”
“High praise indeed,” I say, holding out my hand. “I accept!”
That afternoon, I return to my shed with a second job.
My she-shed might not be much of a living space but for now it’s all I have.
There’s barely enough room for my twin bed, a mini fridge, a hot plate, one big chair, which doubles as a love seat, and a bookshelf.
When I had to give up the condo I shared with my ex, I moved most of my things into storage, another monthly bill.
Here I have electrical outlets, but I can’t use the blender and the light at the same time.
Ask me how I know. There’s only one small mirror, which is more than enough to check to see if my blonde curly hair has decided to behave today.
I shower in the main house, use the bathroom facilities, and eat dinner with the family every night.
Not going to lie. Living in my abuelita’s backyard took some getting used to.
This used to be a garden and tool shed, but it’s always had windows.
Two of them, now decorated with yellow and white frilly curtains that cheer me up.
My Tio Eddie emptied the tools, lawn mower, and potting soil, painted and cleaned, and suggested I live there until I got back on my feet after Chris abandoned me.
He left me six months ago, get this, to join the Peace Corps.
No explanation but the desire to “give back.” Barely enough notice to let our guests know the wedding would be canceled. Jerk.
Later that day, I check in with Abuelita.
Eddie is at work in San Francisco at his dentistry office, so it’s just the two of us.
I sort through the mail that comes to the main house because asking them to deliver it to a shed would be too confusing.
Packages are another story but you should have seen the look on the UPS guy when he delivered a box of books to the shed.
It was nice of Eddie to convert the garden shed to a living space for me, but I have to confess that moving here feels like the physical representation of how badly my life is progressing so far. Not how I expected.
By now, I thought I’d be published, but so far, no one wants my romance novel so I continue to pay the bills by ghostwriting vampire romance for the estate of the late Desdemona Hill.
Abuelita pats the couch after she says hello. “Come sit and watch the telenovela with me.”
I’m not a fan and she usually watches these with Eddie, but I plop down on the couch beside her. “Good news. I got a second job.”
“Bueno,” she says, eyes riveted to the screen.
She’s lying. If left to her own devices, my grandmother would keep me here with her forever. She wanted me to take the only spare bedroom available since Eddie moved in to take care of her. But I don’t want to get too comfortable and complacent here.
She points to the screen. “Ay bendito, probecita. She lost her memory.”
“Didn’t Jessica also lose her memory?” I squint. How many times can they use this particular trope on the same show?
“No, no.” Abuelita points to her temple. “Jessica said she lost her memory, but she was pretending.”
“Ah, si.” This makes all the sense in the world to my grandmother.
“This way, she can stop the divorce from Manuel, the only man she has ever loved.” She clasps her hands to her chest. “He can’t divorce her when she doesn’t remember anything.”
It’s entirely possible I got my romantic streak from her.
I still believe in true love even after my latest disaster.
My parents had the greatest love story. He brought her flowers every day, called her “mi amor” and I caught them more than once dancing in the kitchen without music.
That’s what I want. Nothing less than true love.
The love of my life. I refuse to settle.
Even if my parents’ love story ended tragically, I’ve always wanted what they had together but without the sad ending. It’s the reason I write romance. Everyone in my books gets a happy ending.
I watch the rest of the telenovela with Abuelita, and promise her I’ll come back later to eat dinner with her and Eddie.
But I need to settle in to write my daily word count on my latest vampire book.
I’ve reached the proverbial soggy middle so it’s time to bring in more obstacles from the plot outline.
These books are such fun to write that I’ll usually produce several pages before realizing it.
Once I turn this book in, I’ll get the next royalty advance and be able to finish paying off the late fees on the wedding venue we didn’t cancel in time.
After getting halfway through my word count, I check email and find one from an agent I queried two years ago. The email, which not shockingly is a rejection, is standard for me:
Thank you for sharing your novel with me. You have a real gift for prose, and the characters jump off the page. Ultimately, I did not connect with the story the way I would have liked, so I’m going to pass. I wish you luck in your future publishing endeavors.
Traditional publishing moves at a snail’s pace but this is ridiculous.
At writer conferences I’ve learned this is agent-speak for: I don’t know how to sell your book.
Even if I’m better off without an agent who can’t do what I need her to do, the rejection stings, even with compliments.
It always makes me think there’s something I’m missing if the prose is good and the characters are fleshed out.
Maybe I’m the problem. It’s the story of my life.
Maybe what I’m missing, ironically enough, is inexperience.
I’m told by one of Desdemona’s former ghostwriters who quit to self-publish her own books, that rather than help, ghostwriting is something to overcome.
Now that she’s self-publishing with some success, she’s had interest from New York.
Apparently editors do not have a lot of faith in someone who writes a book when given existing characters with a back story, a decent plot, and a built-in audience.
Or maybe they’d just like us to stay in our lane.
The most frustrating part of ghostwriting is the non-disclosure agreements.
No one can know anything specific about the book I’m writing, or even that I’m often writing bestselling books.
For me, ghostwriting has paid the bills in an uncertain publishing landscape.
Sometimes I think I’ve traded security for my dream but I’m comfortable with anonymity.
My nightmare scenario would be a huge book tour and television appearances.
Yes, the sales and peer acknowledgment would be nice but only if I can enjoy it from the comfort of my home.
There’s another email from my best friend in the writing world, Holly, whom I met years ago at a romance writer conference.
She’s arguably my friend even if we see each other via the screen most of the time.
It’s always been tough for me to make long-lasting friendships and it’s been a while since we connected because I’m feeling self-conscious about my background being a shed.
Like me, Holly has been writing for years without any success.
Unlike me, she’s never tried ghostwriting and makes her living as a high school teacher.
She lives in Missouri, so we only see each other at the occasional writer conference, but mostly online when we both celebrate the little wins.
She knows I’m a ghostwriter but keeps pushing me to write more of my own books.
I’ve written the one, and with all the rejections I worry the thing agents are not telling me is that my work is derivative and I’ve yet to find my own voice.
To: theghostwriter@hotmail
From: inthequerytrenches@yahoo
Hope you’re doing well. Just checking in.
What’s your progress? Any more revisions done or have you started something new?
Remember, start something new, and that way if you sell this one, another one will already be in line.
I wanted to tell you I’m halfway through my latest and entered a contest. Fingers crossed because I’ll get in front of my dream agent if I final in my category.
Too bad I have nothing of note to report.
Holly is always way ahead of me, filled with inspiration and a sense of confidence I envy.
Imposter syndrome? That’s not a thing to her.
She works all day, is mother to three, wife of one, and writes late into the night.
She’s a powerhouse and I know one day soon she’ll be published due to her tenacity alone.
What am I supposed to tell Holly? As writers, we always present our best self to the world. On social media, we’re happy, joyful, and busy. Real life is another story, where you can often find me in a fetal position, munching on chocolate after my latest rejection. Nobody wants a photo of that.
Should I tell her my wedding is off? If I do, she’ll send me all these sad face emojis. I’ve had enough pity from my family.
To: inthequerytrenches@yahoo
From: theghostwriter@hotmail
All is well, though wedding preparations are certainly taking a lot of my time! Funny, I just got a rejection today from an agent I queried two years ago. Um, guess she’s been busy. All the usual lingo about how great it is but just isn’t for her.
Do you think they’re just lying to me? What’s the point?
It’s hard to feel too sad when I am getting married to the love of my life!
As I’ve said before, Chris is the perfect romance hero. I’m pretty much writing every book about him. I have so much material, it’s hard to narrow it down.
Is it lying, or is it fiction?
Sometimes I don’t know the difference.