Because itisexactly what I thought when I messaged back. This could be a connection to my big dream I’ve been chasing for over six years.
There’s a German phrase, and while I can’t speak German, it translates tobreadcrumbs are still bread. Sometimes life doesn’t give you the whole loaf, or in this case, the whole dream. This isn’t a book deal or a literary agent, but itissomething. It’s a breadcrumb. And while breadcrumbs are often looked at as the leftovers, what if we didn’t waste them? What if we took them happily and made something amazing with them?
You can add spices or butter to the crumbs, making croutons or a crust for a cheesecake. Making something that might even bebetter than a loaf of bread! Well, I can’t, because I don’t cook, but metaphorically I can make the best of this potential opportunity.
I can add hope to this connection with a publicist. I can maybe create something with it, maybe something even better than what I’ve been looking for, maybe something completely different than what I knew to create.
“Now, let’s go get a green juice. I know a great place that has a new drink with kale and sea moss,” Mal suggests.
“Um, how about a pretzel with cheese?” I propose.
She doesn’t look amused at my suggestion. “They also serve coffee.”
“Deal,” I reply.
Chapter 6
Rachel
Theblackblazerhasseen better days, but it’s the one my parents bought me when I left for the big city six years ago. It’s a bit tighter now, outdated, and already considered a vintage piece by teenagers on TikTok that think anything five years old is from a different ‘time period’.
So, I embrace that. It’s vintage,not old. And honestly, it’s better made than all those polyester nightmares influencers twirl around in from Temu or Shein. The stitching holds up better than an algorithm armed with a glue gun.
Evan Michaels messaged back with his publicist’s information.Literallyjust his publicist’s information.
Melanie Stevens. 212-555-8582
I made the call to Mrs. Stevens with sweaty palms and nervousness pounding hard in my chest. Her cheerful tone was the first indication that I was not in some kind of literary trouble, and I’d felt my shoulders drop with relief immediately. She loved my writing and has a proposition for me regarding Evan Michaels’ latest book tour, but she wants to divulge the details in person.
And that in-person meeting is not only in two hours, but it also includes Evan Michaels.
Honestly, I’m torn right now on how I feel about him. Like when you must choose between reading a thriller or a fantasy in your TBR pile. Part of me wants to believe in the whimsy of a world I dreamed of creating with Evan Michaels, and the other part of me is absolutely terrified that he hates me and wants me to become the murder victim in his next novel.
I want to believe he’s still my favorite author.
I mean, he still is. Kind of. I think.
I guess the jury is still out, and I’m probably irrationally and ignorantly thinking that his message was mean. I should give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was having a bad day? I mean, weallhave those.
Plus, I’m completely aware that this man doesn’t know how to write emotion into his stories. It’s why I write all the emotions for Barrett. So, maybe, just maybe, his message was overly direct because that’s also how he writes his main character?
Am I really going to hate the guy because ofonemessage?
And the fact is…thisis the closest I’ve been to believing that my dream could come true, even if it feels like a detour from the conventional route into the publishing world. Today, I am meeting a publicist!A publicist!
I look over myself in my smudged mirror. My hair refuses to cooperate, a poofy mane framing my face where stress has shown up on my skin by inviting a large red pimple to camp out on my chin. There’s not enough concealer in the world to conceal my nerves, but I grin at myself.
“I have a meeting with a publicist. My writing was noticed. Today could be the day that changes everything. The sun is shining. I get to meet Evan Michaels.” I say the five things I’m grateful for confidently to my reflection.
I push away the thought that my red hair is accentuating the pimple on my face and that Evan Michaels’ words seemed less than friendly, sling my thrifted Kate Spade purse over my shoulder, and without another look in the mirror, leave my apartment humming “Dancing Queen.”
I’m not seventeen or young and sweet, but I sure can have the time of my life.
Today is my day. Anything is possible, and I smile, realizing that my optimism is resurfacing. Take that unresolved trauma! You do not get to rain on my parade today!
The ride on the subway feels a little longer than usual, but that’s the thing about important moments. They make everything feel more dramatic, and you can choose to see it as the kind that adds sparkle to the edges or the kind that swallows you whole.
I’m quite fond of glimpsing through the glitter so for me, right now, everything looks especially amazing.
