The moment Isabelle walks in, I spot her. She looks identical to her headshot, with a black bob and very little makeup on. Next to her is a woman whose face looks familiar, though I can’t place her name. And on the other side, there’s a tall Black woman with braids. Ayo DeMarcus. I’d recognize her anywhere from her talk on Glennon Doyle’s podcast.
I stand, waving a hand to draw their attention, and as soon as Isabelle sees me, she quickens her pace, a warm smile playing on her features. When she reaches the table, she draws me into a hug. “Oh, it’s so lovely to meet you.” Her voice is rich, with a hint of a British accent, and instantly calming. “We’re all such massive fans.”
“Oh, really? Thank you.”
“This is Ayo DeMarcus and Miriam Schwartz.”
The name clicks for me all at once. Miriam published a book a few years back about campus harassment. It was on my list to read, but I’m embarrassed to admit I never got around to it.
“And, ladies, of course, this is Lila Parks,Althea Ralston conqueror.”
“Impressive,” Ayo says with a look of genuine admiration.
Miriam smiles and holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Lila.”
Quickly, we take our seats, breaking into small talk while we wait for the waiter to bring us water for the table. After we’ve placed our orders, Isabelle gets down to business.
“So, you’ve got an offer from Black Elm.”
I nod. “I just got the contract back from my attorney yesterday. But I wanted to talk to someone who’d worked with them before I pull the trigger.”
The women exchange glances, but it’s Miriam who speaks first, “Can I ask what the book is about? Who else did you pitch?”
“Well, it’s funny, actually. I didn’t.Pitch, I mean. Claire Cade reached out to me. She said they want to publish a memoir about my experience with Havenport and Ralston. It was kind of out of the blue, which I realize makes me sound like an ass, but trust me, I’ve pitched fiction stories for years and gotten rejected, so I understand how big of a deal this is. It’s just…you know, hard to trust.”
“Claire’s my editor,” Ayo says. “She’s nice. Very smart. Knows her stuff about the industry.”
“So, you’d recommend her?” I press, sensing restraint in her tone—something coiled, waiting to snap.
Ayo looks at Isabelle, who shrugs one shoulder. Then Ayo meets my eyes with a sigh. “Look, here’s what I’ll say. They all have their own agenda. Not just Black Elm, but publishers in general. I’ve worked with four, and in my experience, they’re all the same. Just different packaging. At first, it feelslike liberation, you know? Like your story finally has wings and someone believes in you. But then the wings get clipped. Slowly, of course. Never all at once. They ask for edits. Or…tone adjustments. You know, just little things to reach abroader audience.But after a while, it stops feeling like your story and starts feeling like a product. So, it just depends on if you can handle that.”
Miriam leans in. “She’s right. We’ve all been where you are, and let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like holding your book for the first time. Your words all packaged up and ready to enter the world. But…it comes at a cost. Isabelle and Ayo both tried to warn me. Others too. I ignored the signs. I thought my story was too important to change. That my voice was different. But after I’d signed their contract, I was just a number on a spreadsheet. And my story—my trauma—was just a marketing product. I lost control. It was hard at first. I’ve made peace with it now, but when Isabelle told me she was meeting you, I had to come.”
My stomach sinks. “To warn me against it?”
“No,” Miriam says. “Not at all. But to give you a clear picture. One I wish I’d had.”
I swallow, wiping the sweat from my hands onto my jeans. “And that’s all of your experience? The story stops being yours?”
Isabelle meets my eyes with regret, her expression soft. “You have to pick your battles. For some people, it matters less than others.”
“So, what do we do? Just never publish? Choose the lesser evil? Is there a publisher you’d recommend instead?”
Ayo gives a small shake of her head. “It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Black Elm. It’s like I said—they’re all the same. They’re not bad. I think their intentions are generally good. But they’re all part of a system that is inherently flawed. And that system will shape your narrative, even if they promise you it won’t. They’ll force you into boxes based on marketresearch. What sells, what’s palatable. You’ll be given a budget, and if you underperform, that’s it.” She draws a hand across her neck. “We’re all in this for the same reason. We want to expose the ugly truths about one problem or another. But the publishers are gatekeepers. They need a story that can sell well and not get them sued. We just want you to be prepared, no matter what you decide.”
“We aren’t telling you to turn down the offer,” Isabelle adds after a beat. “We just want you to know what you’re walking into.”
“And the truth is…if the publishers are coming to you, there’s a good chance you already have the platform to reach whoever you want anyway. Start a podcast. Self-publish. Keep writing your articles,” Ayo says.
My skin crawls, and a flush of heat washes over my face as if she’s patted me on the head.Keep writing your articles.
Miriam nods in agreement. “You’ve got the power to do this on your own terms. Your own way.”
The women watch me closely, and I pretend I’m taking in their every word. Up until a moment ago, I’m sure I was. But then that comment—that attempt to keep me in place. And now the questions are wriggling in my mind. Are they being honest? Or do they just not want me to find success? To compete with them? Are they saying these things out of jealousy? Or am I about to trade my truth for a place on the shelf?
I go home, their words still winding in my brain like smoke.
Just after two a.m., I sign the contract.
