The moderator explains that this will mostly be a Q&A panel, which I knew from reading the description online, and as soon as she asks the panelists to introduce themselves and their books, a hand shoots up in the front row.
I bite back a smile.
The hand remains steadfastly in the air while Rowan and Ayesha speak, and then it’s West’s turn.
“I’m West, and I—uh—” He stumbles over his words as thehand begins waving frantically back and forth. “I write books that my mom calls ‘depressing,’ and—uh—I guess we’ll just start the questions.” He nods to the woman in the front row. She takes a microphone out of the moderator’s hands. “I just wanted to say that I think it’s really cool that you are all writers, and I want to be a writer, too.”
West blinks at her. “You’re in the right place.”
Halfway back, another hand goes up. The microphone is passed to a middle-aged white man. “My question is more of a comment,” he says, and I see warning bells go off in West’s head.
When Not-a-Question Guy finishes his five-minute ramble on why the push for diversity in publishing is “regressive, actually,” West’s jaw is clenched tight. He exchanges eye contact with his fellow panelists, and Ayesha says, “I think we all disagree with your take. Next question?” I’m impressed with how she handled it. Better not to give those comments more attention than they deserve.
Front-Row Woman has her hand in the air again, and when no one else raises their hand, she happily takes possession of the microphone. She asks a question about filing for a copyright on her unpublished manuscript and claims that the idea ofDora the Explorerwas stolen from her.
The rest of the hour continues in the same fashion. Whenever there’s a five-second lull, Front-Row Woman blurts out another question without waiting for the microphone, and the moderator has given up trying to control it.
Rowan and Ayesha try to help him, but it’s tough when every question is prefaced by the same statement:This question is for West.
“How much did you get paid for your last book?”
“Do you feel like a creative sellout because you’re not self-published?”
“What is your favorite young adult novel?”
“Do you believe in muses?”
When she finally relinquishes the microphone, she shifts ever so slightly and gives me a subtle thumbs-up.Thank you, I mouth silently. She tips an imaginary hat. Daphne is unbelievable for making this happen; I should try harder with the sourdough. She’d appreciate it.
The microphone is passed to a young woman in the third row who introduces herself as a U of A student. West sits back in his chair, looking relieved to get a break from the onslaught.
“I recently started querying my novel and am wondering if you have any advice for dealing with rejection.”
“Alcohol,” Ayesha says immediately. The audience chuckles. “Wait, how old did you say you are?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Alcohol or antidepressants. Don’t mix the two. I can also recommend ice cream, crying, and venting to your friends in a private group chat,” Ayesha says.
West’s eyebrows skyrocket. “You mean my method of bottling up my feelings and refusing to talk about them isn’t a good idea?” he asks. The audience laughs again, and an old wound reopens in my chest. I know he’s talking about career rejection—not us—but it hits a little too close to home. “In all seriousness, being an author means dealing with a truckload of rejection. It sucks, especially in the beginning, and unfortunately nothing any of us can say will make it suck less.”
“So we’re not even going to try,” Rowan quips.
“I still remember my first brutal rejection,” Ayesha says. “I was sick over it.”
“I have parts of minememorized,” West says.
“Do you really?” Rowan asks.
“It’s framed in my bathroom. Hanging next to myNew York Timesbook review.” The audience loves this. “Have to keep myself humble somehow.” He winks, and I’m annoyed that even after that hellish Q&A, he’s still charming the crowd.
“I think it would make us all feel better to hear what it said,” Ayesha prompts, and it’s not that surprising that she’d ask. Writers like to swap rejection stories like badges of honor.
“Nice try.” He shakes his head, but the woman in the front row yells “C’mon!” and then someone else shouts “Please?”
West rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Let’s see what I can remember.” He runs a hand over his jaw, and my stomach tightens. It feels unfathomable that he went through something so monumental and I don’t have any idea when it happened or what book it was in response to or how he reacted in the moment. I don’t know anything about his journey other than what’s in his author bio. It’s just weird.
West’s eyes reach a spot in the back of the tent, and I slouch lower in my seat, grateful for the sunglasses. “This agent isn’t working in publishing anymore, but at the time, he was extremely well-connected and respected. He wrote ‘Dear Mr.Everson’—yes, he got my name wrong—‘You are not ready to be querying. You are nowhere close. Go back to high school and stop wasting my time with this insipid drivel. Ten years from now, you might think you’re ready to try again. If you are, don’t query me.’ ”
