Page 6 of Role Play
Stop.
Why waste my breath? I’ve tried for the better part of a decade to explain my life choices, but they will never make sense to her. Finance managers speak numbers and statistics. Mom will never understand my plight as an author. And by plight I do mean a desperate, relentless desire to stay remotely relevant in an oversaturated, no-bars-to-entry industry, which all but guarantees financial failure.
“Are you being so defensive because you hired Hepzibah to get you through another writer’s block?” Her voice is honey smooth. She’s speaking to me the way she would to soothe me through a tantrum as a little girl. It’s almost tender and maternal until I hear her cover her chuckle with a lazy cough.
I scowl into the phone. “I hope you have an appetite because you’re about to eat your words. I’m meeting Dane Spellman.” I pause for dramatic effect, but when Mom doesn’t gasp, squeal, or spontaneously combust on the spot, I’m forced to reiterate. “Dane Spellman. Of Spellman Literary.”
“You can say his name until your voice goes hoarse, that still doesn’t tell me anything.”
“He’s an agent who represents every top dog in the industry. R.M. Mercer, Paige Gold, Jinny Michaels—and they are considered his midlist authors.Mom. They literally call him ‘The Dream Maker.’” Dane Spellman has a contact with every Big 5 publisher and it’s rumored he refuses to sign deals under seven figures. He is exactly what my dawdling author career needs.
Phone still pressed to my ear, I smile when the barista and I finally make eye contact. I give her a small wave, indicating I’m ready to order, but she quickly looks away and pretends to fiddle with the buttons on the espresso machine.Are you freaking kidding me right now?
“Oh, Sora.” I hate the way Mom says it. Like she’s disappointed that I just traded our only family cow for a handful of magic beans. “How many times have you been through this?”
“Please don’t start?—”
“I don’t want to see you get your heart broken again. You don’t need a hotshot agent to validate you. Get a normal job. Write books as a hobby. If it were just for fun, wouldn’t that take the pressure off? We have some service positions open at the bank. Good benefits, great pay, and we could have lunch together every day.”
The heat prickles in my cheeks as we circle back to our normal exchange. Me, telling Mom I’m at the doorstep of my big break. Mom, begging me to give up and return to earth, because you can’t get anything done in life with your head in the clouds.
“Mama, I want to do something I love.”
“I lovemyjob?—”
I cut her off with a groan. “Will you please just give me this one? Be happy and congratulate me for landing the meeting that is going to change my entire career.”
I check my phone again. 1:09. We are getting dangerously close to Dane being rude. Another ten minutes and we’re stepping foot in the something-came-up-and-I-have-to-reschedule danger zone. It shouldn’t come to that—I confirmed our meeting this morning with his assistant.
It’s taken a shameless amount of pleading, cajoling, and ass-kissing to even get this meeting. Dane’s office made it quite clear he’s not taking on new clients. Translation: He’s not interested in small, broke, indie authors. It hurt, but at this point in my life, my engine basically runs off the fuel of rejection and humiliation, so I’m learning to take “no” as an invitation to try harder. Persistence and resilience are the keys to a happily-ever-after in the publishing world.
When Dane’s assistant, Morgan, called a few weeks ago, I was on my way to snag a bagel from my favorite bagel cart in the West Village. It’s a solid thirty-minute walk, but they have the best cream cheese and they don’t charge extra for their generous shmears. I literally stopped in my tracks in the middle of Broadway when her contact information popped up on my phone. My heart locked up. How could I continue to walk?
Sure, I got savagely bumped and flipped off a few times for causing a pedestrian traffic jam, but it was worth it. After Morgan informed me that Dane had an opening to meet with me, I fell straight to my knees on the dirty sidewalk, right in the middle of Broadway, and cried out in glee.
I took every single precaution for this meeting. I ensured the location was at my lucky coffee shop, which was conveniently located nearby his office. Superstitious thoughts aside, with only a two-minute walking commute, there’s less of a chance Dane could cancel on me.
A week out from the meeting, I re-sent sample chapters and a synopsis of my newest manuscript. Two days out, I sent Morgan a small muffin basket and a thank-you note for accommodating me. Finally, this morning, I made an excuse to reconfirm that the meeting was at the coffee shop in Tribeca, and not the location near Hell’s Kitchen. It was a little white lie. Had Morgan done a simple Google search, she would’ve easily discovered that Papa Beans has no second location. But it slipped right by her as she confirmed the meeting for 1:00 p.m. at the location right by their office.
“Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” There’s not an ounce of zest in Mom’s obligatory reply. She can’t even fake it. But it’s all I’m going to get.
“Thank you,” I respond in a matching monotone.
“Call me after? I know we have plans tomorrow, but would you like to do dinner tonight, as well?”
“Two dinners in a row? Isn’t that a lot of mother-daughter time?”
This time her laugh is melodic and warm. “Like I could ever get enough of my favorite child.”
“Your only child,” I clarify. “And I can’t. I have dinner with Dad. Remember? He’s on a flight to New York right now.”
“Right. I forgot he still visits for your birthday,” she grumbles. Mom’s tone has deflated, the way it does anytime Dad is mentioned. They’ve been divorced for twelve years, but I don’t think the wound completely healed over. They were so passionately volatile. They loved each other so much, but they hated each other more.
I was fourteen when they called it quits. They promised me after the divorce we’d still do family things…
They tried. It was short-lived.
The first year after their breakup, they made the effort to get together for my birthday. That night ended with confetti cake in my dad’s hair and Mom subtly threatening him with a butcher knife. And for the record, he had it coming.
