“But they said that they didn’t allow changes.”
“I’m sure they don’t.”
“You mean you lied about Jill sending you to group C?”
“Not really,” he said. “I figured that Jill, being the head of the romance writers, was a staunch proponent of romance, so when I said Jill wanted me in group C, I was telling the truth, in a matter of speaking.”
I laughed. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Are you glad I did?”
“I’m very glad.” I picked at my meal, then said, “So is that what this is? A romance?”
He just smiled.
An hour later we shared an apple crisp dessert. As we finished eating he said, “We better go.”
“It’s still early.”
“I know,” he said. “But I need to finish your book.”
“I’m flattered that you’re really reading it.”
“It’s an easy read.”
I frowned. “Do you mean it’s too simple?”
“Good writing is simple. Hemingway once wrote, ‘If I had more time, I’d write a shorter book.’ ”
“Then you’re saying it’s not too simple.”
“No,” he said. “It’s not. The scientist who can explain complex theories to the layman is brilliant. Accessibility is true genius.”
“I’m definitely accessible,” I said.
A large smile crossed his face. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER
Twenty
I suppose, like most people, I don’t really want to hear truth; I want to hear good things. If they happen to be true, so much the better.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
The next morning I had breakfast with Samantha. Outside it was snowing hard—hard enough that some of the hotel guests were stranded and the lobby was crowded with disgruntled travelers and their mounds of luggage.
I didn’t see Zeke until our workshop. When I walked in he was sitting next to Karen, talking to her. He smiled when he saw me and motioned to the seat next to him.
“I finished your book,” he said. “Every word.”
He had a perfect poker face, and I couldn’t tell whether he liked or hated it. “And?”
“Let’s talk about it tonight.”
“You hated it.”
“Don’t go there,” he said. “Are you up for another dinner?”
“I’m always up for dinner.”
“If the weather improves, I thought we could go into town. I’m starting to feel a little caged. It would be nice to escape the property for the evening.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I said.
I left the last session early. Actually, everyone did. It was titled From Walmart to Hollywood, with bestselling author Deborah Mackey. The session was Skyped in, and probably due to the weather, the reception was poor. Finally the facilitator just disconnected the call and apologized for the technical difficulties.
I didn’t really care. I was glad for the extra time to get ready for our date. As I entered the lobby, Zeke was already standing near the front door. He again kissed me on the cheek. “You look gorgeous.”
“So do you.”
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m starving. Where are we going?”
“The concierge recommended a little Italian restaurant in Burlington called L’Amante. Does that sound all right?”
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
“Good. My car’s outside.”
It was still snowing as we walked out of the hotel, though not nearly as hard as it had been earlier. The car Zeke had rented was a Mercedes-Benz four-wheel drive. He opened my door for me and I got in, then he came around and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Buckle up,” he said. “The roads are still a little slick.”
I pulled the seat belt over my chest as he drove off into the winter night.
The restaurant, L’Amante, was about a thirty-five-minute drive from the inn. It reminded me a little of Salvatore’s in Vegas.
After we were seated I asked Zeke, “How did you know I liked Italian?”
“You ordered the gnocchi the other night,” he said. “And you are Italian. Rossi is an Italian name, right?”
“Yes, it means red.”
“I knew that,” he said. “I studied Italian when I spent a summer in Florence. I was thinking about moving there permanently. It was right after my wife left me and I needed a clean break. Have you ever been to Italy?”
“No. My father and I have talked about going, but it always seems like something comes up.” I looked down at the menu. “What are you getting?”
“The concierge at the hotel recommended the orecchiette if you like eggplant.”
“I hate eggplant.”
“Avoid the orecchiette,” he said.
To start our meal, Zeke ordered an expensive bottle of Chianti, a cheese and salami plate, and an arugula salad with shavings of pecorino cheese, roasted beets, pine nuts, and balsamic vinegar. The moment the waiter left our table I pounced.
“So what did you think of my book?”
“Have some wine,” he said.
“It’s that bad?”
“I didn’t say that.” He filled my glass with wine and waited until I took a drink. “All right, my critique. The bottom line is, I’ve got good news, good news, good news, and a little bad news.”
“Let’s start with the bad news,” I said.
“Why would you want to start with the bad news?”
“It’s the way I roll,” I said. “Eat the bad stuff first, save dessert for last.”
He nodded. “All right. The bad news is, your book’s not publishable.”
His words hit me like a fist in the stomach. When I could speak I said, “You call that a little bad news?”
“It is,” he said. “Because the good news is, you’ve got an ear for dialogue, a great sense of pacing, and you can definitely turn a sentence. In other words, you can write. And that’s really good news, because, in the end, you either hear the music or you don’t. You hear the music.”
I think he expected this to compensate for his rejection, but I was still reeling. He continued.
“The second piece of good news is, you’ve got a great concept for a book, which is much harder to come by than most people realize. And third, your book is fixable.”
I just looked at him, my heart and mind aching.
“Let’s go back to the not-publishable part,” I said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Okay,” he said, looking disappointed that I’d focused on the negative. “There are two problems. First, it’s not romance you’re writing, it’s fantasy.”
“You said fantasy is romance.”
“But I didn’t say that romance is fantasy.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your people aren’t credible.”
“What’s wrong with my characters?”
“Precisely that,” he said. “You’re not writing characters. You’re writing people. And in the real world, even the best of people are flawed. Your people aren’t. And neither is their relationship. Love is full of pain and mistakes. That’s what makes it interesting and that’s why we explore relationships in literature. That whole ‘love is never having to say you’re sorry’ crap is just that, crap. Love is learning how to say you’re sorry. It’s the trial and error and correction that makes it worthwhile.”
I just looked at him.
“Let me put it this way. Love is like learning how to dance. When you first hear the music, you’re full of passion and you don’t care who’s watching because you just want to fling yourself around like an idiot. It’s clumsy and it’s full of missteps and falls and sometimes you’re not even dancing to the same tune, but you don’t notice because you’re so carried away by the music.
“But then the music begins to wane, and you start stepping on each other’s toes. Some think that’s the truth of the relationship and run. But the truth is, that’s where
true love begins. That’s when you start to learn each other’s rhythm and how to move together. And if you stick with it long enough, you might even learn to be graceful.”
After a moment I said, “I guess none of my dance partners stuck around long enough for me to learn that.”
“There’s that too,” he said. “You need to have a partner who cares about the dance. Without that, you won’t get far.”
I took a deep breath, considering his words. I wasn’t even sure how to fix what he’d already suggested. Finally I said, “You said there were two problems.”
“The second is tougher,” he said.
As if the first wasn’t painful enough. My heart already hurt. I dreaded hearing what he had to say.
He looked into my eyes. “Actually, it’s a symptom of the same problem. The reason your people aren’t believable is because you’re not bleeding through them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I once heard a writer say, ‘It’s easy to write a novel; you just slit your wrist and let it bleed on the pages.’ She was right. There’s not enough of your own blood on these pages. You’re not vulnerable enough and you can’t hide that. You have pain in your life; let it out in your words. It’s like you’re writing with gloves on. Take them off. Let the reader really see you. Let them know your fears and hurts. Sophocles and Freud believed that we are defined by our fears. There’s a lot of truth to that. When you share your greatest fears, your vulnerability, we bond in that honesty. We connect with each other and we don’t feel so alone. And that’s what books are really about. Connecting.”
Tears began to well up in my eyes. “What if I don’t want to share that part of me?”
“Then don’t write.”
I don’t know why hearing this from him hurt so much but it did. I felt humiliated and dumb. I wiped my eyes. “If you know so much, why aren’t you published? Why should I listen to you?”
“That’s a good question,” he said calmly. “Why should you listen to me? Don’t. Listen to yourself. You’re a writer. So ask yourself if what I’m saying is true. You’ll know the answer.”
I wiped my eyes with my napkin, avoiding his gaze.
“Kim, when I took your manuscript I promised you that I would be honest. But truthfully, I lied. Because if I thought your writing was beyond saving, I wouldn’t have been so direct. I would have told you what you wanted to hear, not what you should hear. But you are a very good writer—good enough to be published. And I believe you have the potential to someday be a great writer. An Amy Tan or a Nora Roberts. But you can’t do that halfway.”
I took another breath, then quickly dabbed my eyes with my napkin. “May I have some more wine?”
“Of course,” he said. He poured my glass nearly to the brim and I took a sip, then a bigger one, hoping to dull some of the pain I felt.
“We can fix this,” he said, holding up my manuscript. “I can help you get this right.”
I set down my glass. “We?”
“If you want my help.”
“You have your own book to work on,” I said.
“It can wait,” he replied. “I’ve waited years for this one, what’s another few months?”
I knew that he had meant the offer kindly, but all I could feel was the pain of rejection. After a moment I said, “I don’t want your help. May I have my book back, please?”
My response hurt him. “Of course,” he said softly, handing me the manuscript. “I’m sorry if what I said came out harsh. I would never intentionally hurt you.”
“You have your opinion,” I said.
The rest of the evening was miserable. We barely spoke, and I regretted leaving the hotel, since all I wanted was to go back to my room. I barely ate my food, then asked to leave before dessert or coffee.
We didn’t speak the whole way back to the Mistletoe Inn. Zeke looked like he was feeling as awful as I did. When we got back to the hotel he pulled up to the front door and I immediately reached for the door handle.
“Kim,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was only trying to help.”
I opened the door, climbed out of the car, then turned back to him. “Thank you for your help.” I turned and walked away. When I got to my room I threw my manuscript against the wall, scattering it in a mess of pages. Then I fell on the bed and cried.
CHAPTER
Twenty-one
Too many times we lose today’s battles because we’re still engaged in fighting yesterday’s.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
I didn’t sleep well, and I didn’t exercise the next morning. I didn’t want to take the chance I’d see Zeke. I was embarrassed about how I had handled things. The worst part was that I wasn’t even sure why it hurt so much. I knew that he hadn’t wanted to hurt me. For that matter, why did I even care? Who’s to say that he knew any more than anyone else? What I did know was that being with him had been the best part of the conference so far. Why had I ruined it?
I ordered breakfast from room service, then, after eating, climbed into the tub, where I stayed until the water started to turn cold. I got out and went back to bed, purposely missing the workshop. Today we were supposed to share our partners’ critiques of our books, and the thought of that was about as welcome as a kidney stone.
Also, today was my day to meet with the agents, and I didn’t want to face them already bloodied. Besides, maybe they’d disagree with Zeke and the whole thing would be moot.
I finally got out of bed around eleven. I dressed and did my hair, then went down to find Samantha. As I walked out into the lobby Zeke was sitting on one of the sofas. He immediately stood. “Kim.”
I started to turn away from him.
“Kim, please, talk to me.”
In spite of my regret, seeing him brought back the pain. Again my feelings overcame me. “Why? You found more things wrong with my book?”
He put his hand on my arm. “Look, I know how much it hurts to be criticized. Trust me, I’ve had more than my share. But all criticism isn’t the same. Some criticism is mean-spirited and some is shared because someone cares. It’s like . . . telling a friend they have something in their teeth.”
“In this scenario I’m your slob friend with something in her teeth?”
He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I’m sorry, bad example. I know last night shook you up, but it should have encouraged you.”
My eyes welled up. “Encouraged me to do what? Quit? Trust me, don’t get a job as an inspirational speaker, because you suck at it.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re not going to let me apologize, are you?”
Even though I could see how much he was hurting, I said nothing. Finally he breathed out slowly. “All right, I’ll leave you alone. Good luck. I hope things go well for you when you meet with the agents today. I hope they’re kinder than I am.” He turned and walked away.
As I watched him go a tear fell down my cheek. I felt sick inside. The moment I let myself be vulnerable, I got hurt. When would I learn?
As I sat there, Samantha walked up to me. “You’ll never believe what the brilliant workshop group F talked about today. Love and wormholes, and would it be ethically wrong to be in love with two different people if they lived in different dimensions. Honestly, I wanted to puncture my eardrums.” She stopped. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
I looked down so she couldn’t see my eyes.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
After a moment I shook my head. “Nothing. Let’s just go to lunch.”
At the table Samantha just stared at me. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
I took a deep breath. “You know I let Zeke read my book.”
“And?”
“He didn’t like it.”
She blinked slowly. “And he told you that? I knew I didn’t like him. For the record, he doesn’t really look like George Clooney, I was just being nice. He looks more like George Costanza on Seinfeld.”
&n
bsp; “No he doesn’t,” I said, suddenly feeling protective of him. “He’s beautiful. And he’s sweet. He was just being honest.”
Samantha frowned. “How can he tell you your book stinks and still be sweet?”
“He didn’t say it stinks. He had constructive criticism.”
“Now you’re defending him? This is like that Stockholm syndrome.”
“This is nothing like Stockholm syndrome.”
“It’s some kind of syndrome,” she said. “So what do you do now?”
“I don’t know. He tried to apologize, twice, but I . . .” I took a deep breath. “I’ll probably never see him again.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But cheer up. Don’t you have your agents this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to knock their socks off. And Zeke is going to be eating his words with catsup and French-fried potatoes.”
I just looked at her. She was the strangest and sweetest person I’d ever met.
“I love you,” I said.
She smiled. “I love you too,” she said, then added, “in a totally non-romantic way.”
“Thanks for the disclaimer.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “Anytime, sweetie. Anytime.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-two
There’s no point in switching course after you’ve hit the iceberg.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
The way the agent meetings worked was fairly standard for these kinds of conferences. I paid—actually my father had paid—a hundred dollars to meet with each agent. I gave the agent a copy of my manuscript, which he or she was obligated to read for fifteen minutes and then write a brief assessment.
The first agent I met with was Timothy Ryan, a twenty-seven-year veteran of the publishing industry. We met in a room with five other agents and authors.
As I settled nervously into my chair, Timothy looked down at his appointment list, then back at me. “You’re Kimberly Rossi.”
“Yes, sir.”