An Unexpected Turn

Inspiration happens when you least expect it to.  I certainly didn’t imagine finding it at KP’s, a favorite breakfast nook in town. 

I pull my clunker of a Jeep into a tight spot (what’s one more scratch?) to grab a coffee and impromptu visit to see my husband and son, already nestled inside.   I make my way through a throng of breakfast regulars to find them seated in a booth, plates half-finished and peppered with crumbs.  In the adjacent booth behind them, a pair of smiling faces greets me with a smile and warm hello.  Struck by a moment of identity-black-out, I hesitate...

Then a glimmer of personality emerges in her eyes.  Martha!  Seated opposite her, Maureen chuckles heartily.  Martha has dyed her dark hair a playful blonde.  This doesn’t qualify for a senior moment, but at least we all still have a sense of humor.

Not to mention, it’s been awhile. 

My son participated in a mutual playgroup with Martha’s daughter nearly ten years ago.  I first met Maureen even before that, after I had made a favorable sell on our neighborhood.  Apparently, I had coaxed her and her husband to move in while walking my beloved Golden, Willy.  Now, casually seated in a KP’s breakfast booth, the ladies inquire about my writing.  How’s that novel you’ve been writing?

The question spooks me. 

Although I’ve been writing since the sixth grade, I’ve taken the craft seriously for ten years now. It’s barely believable that a decade has slipped through my fingers like sand.  The first time I met these women, I was writing my first novel, The Owl’s Swallow.  Though it’s not my best, it’s my first, and damn important to my growth as a serious writer.  My second novel, The Hunted, improves, though it needs a bit of remodeling.  The story I’m currently seeking publication for, The One That Came After, is my strongest.    

The more you write, the better you get at it.  The writing process is far from linear and every author walks a unique path to publication. Mine definitely must be the road less traveled.  I’ve learned that it takes a very long time to be very good at writing (unless you’re Stephen King, deemed a freak of nature by an esteemed author and former NY writing coach of mine, Charles Salzberg).  There’s nothing natural about the job. 

It’s work, plain and simple.  Worse, the financial gain is meager. 

Those of us stubborn enough to endure its crap end up breaking out eventually.  The thought corners me while I fill Martha and Maureen in on the uphill battle that has become my life sentence:  Three novels written, twenty-plus queries out for current novel, rejections, more of the same.  They respond with an intuitive spirit.  They understand.  Keep going, don’t give up, it’s what you have to go through, they say.

Colored pink, I reconvene with my family    

The waitress fills my coffee mug and I order the usual, sunny-side up eggs and toast.  Baseball talk is well underway.  I take a first sip, and slide easily into conversation (I love that darn sport). Then the thought hovers rudely above me again - I should be further along by now.  I turn scarlet.  I’ve been writing fiction for ten years and, still, no agent? 

My husband unfolds his wallet and takes care of the check.  Massively successful, he’s been taking care of most of the checks.  I watch the careful way he secures the bills in the flap of his wallet, his love for money subtlety evident.  I am humbled. 

My own wallet is a haphazard collection of coins, notes, and coupons.  All too often, I find crumpled bills in the pockets of shorts, fresh out of the dryer.  Though I confess to relishing in the euphoric moment of discovery—I’m suddenly three bucks richer than I thought I was—in truth, I ought to be more organized.  I want to coddle and invest money the way the financial gurus of the world do.

There’s just one problem. 

My passion for words, stories, and the steamy lives of made-up people continues to stalk me like a cheap lover.  My love for writing exceeds the ordinary.  It’s a dysfunctional relationship, one I’m ill-equipped to justify… but, more viscerally, it’s just part of my piping.  Somewhere in the right section of my brain, there’s probably a loose screw, or a rusty hinge, but I’m wired to write and nothing will ever change that.  I may have one perfect paragraph to show by the day’s end, but I’m hooked on this filthy habit like a Fifty Shades Darker reader. 

Still…

 I should have more to show by now. I should have books stacked high on a shelf like Donald Trump’s buildings.  At forty-two, shouldn’t I be able to fire someone at least? 

 I digress.

 The waitress is back with my hot plate.  I dip the crust into the yolk and listen to my son elaborate on how to throw a knuckle ball.  My husband listens attentively.  He’s about to make a point.  I imagine him seated in a mahogany conference room, sharply dressed and prepared to strategize a better way to run a business. 

Strategize.  The word sticks in my mouth.  It’s too sure of itself, an overly confident word that I’m suspicious of.  Adding ‘ize’ to a noun does not make for an interesting verb, I decide amidst the pitching conversation.  I silently debate the ize ending.  We don’t pencilize appointments, we pencil them in.  Children don’t colorize pages.  They color them in.  A pitcher doesn’t strikercize a hitter, he strikes them out. 

Strategize competes with the more honest word, exercise, a word that does not beg for attention. Instead, it partners up with context to reveal its part of speech:  I went to exercise class (adj).  I exercised today (vb).  That is the hardest exercise imaginable (noun). 

Not too shabby. 

Strategize is like a turbo shot of caffeine.   Its energy is phony.

My son faces me, asks what time it is.   He wants to get to the ball field early.  I take in his soft features.  Ben is heartbreakingly attractive, and completely unaware of his looks.  My woes dissolve in the goodness of Ben; a child who once told me not to teach too much because I wouldn’t have time to write, a child who reminded me of my Employee-of-the-Month accolade at Papa Ginos.    

 I offer up the time and it is decided that it will be best for the guys to head home now.  There is talk of the daily schedule:  Jim will do the grocery shopping (grilled salmon later) and I will drive Ben to his game.  Then the two of them shuffle out of the booth and exit the diner, leaving me dangerously stranded with myself.  I slice my eggs.  My thoughts begin to drift.  Martha and Maureen, aware of the amendment to our booth, call me over to sit with them. 

 The invite is nothing short of divine. 

 I readily accept, grab my coffee mug, and huddle amongst the ladies (and one quite accepting teenage daughter).  We slide in and out of conversation about motherhood.  Our worries collide.  The waitress caters.  Before long, I am asked to tell what my novel is about.   

By now, I should know how to articulate my own novel’s premise.  What’s the story about anyway?  It sounds simple. Still, I never fail to botch up a few themes in my pitch.  Martha and Maureen save me.  They are kind, genuinely interested in The One That Came After.  I am emboldened by their curiosity.  I launch into a play-by-play of the title’s origin, the character’s motivations, and hidden themes—the motifs. 

Before long, the three of us are relating the struggles of my protagonist to a few of our own.  In the process, I learn that Martha works as a counselor for troubled individuals about to leave prison.  I’m fascinated, moved by her work.  Maureen comes through with a bold compliment.  Martha looks at every person objectively, she says.  She does not cast judgment on anyone and she’s so good at what she does.  Martha accepts the compliment humbly, confessing that although the job is low-paying, she loves it. 

 I really think you’ll enjoy the psychological aspect of this story, I say to Martha. My villain is a deranged sociopath who suffers from DID (Disassociative Identity Disorder) though the true criminal of the story is the least suspecting man.  Both ladies perk up.  My imagination does not blind them, it intrigues them, and it seems that we could go on this way for hours.

But my time with the Sutton gals is ruefully up. 

I drive home, turn the radio up, and picture these readers turning the pages of my novel.  Martha’s hair is still blonde, Maureen’s eyes still sparkle. 

Their belief in me erases the shadow of doubt that looms above me these days.  It drowns out the dark voices of the skeptics and helps me to hear the only one that truly matters. 

 My own.