Chapter 2 #3
With my lungs contracting and more sweat dampening my tank top, I swipe on the notification and the app opens and shows the email right away.
Dear Ziya,
Thank you for your patience with me while I finished THE LONGEST GOODBYE.
While there is so much to love here regarding characterization and representation, the low-stakes plot of the story makes it one that would not be able to stand out in a crowded market.
Small-town stories are a dime a dozen in this business, and I struggled to see any new or fresh angles delivered in this concept, so I can’t see anyone wanting it.
For this reason, I must decline representation at this time.
I’m sorry I don’t have better news, but please remember this is just one agent’s opinion.
I wish you all the best in finding the right home for your work!
Best,
Rachel
Oh.
Okay.
My heart sinks, and there’s a sharp ache in my chest. The back of my throat burns. Tears flood my eyes and blur my vision, to the point where I can’t even see the words on the screen anymore. It’s strange to think how blots of fake ink on a screen can be enough to make someone ugly cry.
I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle the pitiful sounds coming out of me, then peer over my shoulder to make sure Emily is still asleep.
Once I’m sure, I dash over to my bedroom and shut the door behind me.
Our apartment is pretty small, so I don’t allow myself to wail, but I let the tears fall as I slide down to the floor.
The low-stakes plot of the story makes it one that would not be able to stand out in a crowded market.
Small-town stories are a dime a dozen in this business.
I struggled to see any new or fresh angles delivered in this concept.
Is that all my story is reduced to? All I’m reduced to? Does that mean different voices don’t matter? That they’re worthless? That I missed a moment I wasn’t allowed to take part in in the first place?
As cracks splinter through my rib cage, I realize the truth: my dreams will never be fulfilled. After over twenty years, the weight of that truth settles over my lungs. It fills the tiny air sacs to the brim until it suffocates me. My dreams don’t matter. They never will. And I need to accept that.
I lift my head, now pounding from all the crying, and scramble to my feet. I stomp over to my desk, plop myself down in the chair, and flip my laptop screen up. I didn’t turn it off the last time I used it, which makes what I’m about to do a lot easier.
I delete my manuscript from my folder. I delete everything. All my previous drafts, my outlines, my notes.
As I move all my files to the recycle bin and take the extra step to empty it out, I think about the first time I realized I enjoyed reading.
In kindergarten, during free time, all the other kids flocked to the toys or the art stations or the sandbox; I would always go to the bookshelf.
It was slim pickings, and I made my way through the whole shelf fast, so once I finished the entire catalogue, I started reading all the books again.
By the time I got to my fourth read-through, my teacher had ordered a few new books for the classroom.
The excitement that filled me when I saw the brand-new glossy covers buzzed my entire body.
It felt like the world was full of possibilities, because if one day I was reading the same thing over and over and then the next I suddenly had something new, it felt like anything could happen.
As I clean out the backups on my computer and the cloud, I think about the first time I realized I could be a writer.
I was twelve, and the local library was having a writing contest. I had already been writing little stories down on paper, but I never thought to do anything with them.
I remember the librarian slipping a paper with the announcement to me when I went to go pick up the ten books I put on hold (which I would inevitably finish in a week).
I stared up at him with wide eyes and said, “But I don’t write.
” And his response was “But you could.” With that encouragement, I sprinted home.
I grabbed my best gel pens and newest notebook and scribbled down all kinds of ideas.
I ended up writing about a man who decides to go fishing but everything goes wrong with his day.
I didn’t win, but the rush of adrenaline that coursed through my body as I pressed the tip of my pen into the paper and wrote in my best handwriting and then handed the story off to the library is one I’ll never forget, because it changed everything.
It made me realize if I wanted to be a writer, I could just start.
No one could stop me, not if I had a pen and ideas swirling in my head like dandelion fluff waiting to settle into the grass to plant something new and bloom into something beautiful.
And finally, as I delete my entire querying email account, I think about the first time I realized I could do writing for real.
I was fifteen, wandering the shelves of the library, trying to find something new to take home for the weekend, when I found a title with an author whose last name was Tahir.
I immediately grabbed it and flipped to the author bio, and sure enough, the author was Pakistani.
She was just like me. And if she could do it, so could I.
I yank out my external USB and stare down at it. This tiny little device has the only existing copy of my book, a piece of art I poured my heart and soul into. Countless months of late nights, brainstorming sessions, and missed meal breaks because I was in the zone. The very last of it is in here.
I toss it to the ground and crush it with my heel until it shatters into tiny pieces. I cry the whole time, tears dripping down my chin.
When I’m done, I kick the pieces to the side.
I’ll deal with it in the morning. Then I stomp back into the kitchen, pull the cake out of the fridge, and aggressively cut a piece.
There are only a few minutes left until my birthday, and after the rejection I just got, I deserve this.
At the last second, I snatch the candles from the counter and grab a box of matches.
I change into pajamas, then situate myself on my bed with the plate and the candles.
My eyes are puffy and red, and my throat feels like I swallowed a baseball, but I don’t even care as I stick one of the candles into the cake.
A quick check on my phone tells me there’s about thirty seconds until midnight.
I strike a match and light the candle. The tiny flame flickers blue on top of the wick for a solid three seconds before it shifts to red.
I blink at it, dwelling for a moment in its soft quiet resilience.
But I can barely see through the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes again when I turn my attention back to the sad-looking piece of cake.
This cake is supposed to represent my big transition into the next decade of my life.
A decade where I’m supposed to be wiser, thriving, and completely sure of myself.
Instead, I feel like I know nothing, I’m stuck in a dead-end job, and I have never felt so lost. I always used to be so sure of my writing; it’s been the one constant in my life.
I wonder when that changed. I just want to be happy.
As the clock strikes twelve, I make a wish and blow out the candle.