The thing is, I don’t want to give up on love and sex for my whole life. But I just need a break.
So, won’t you all join me?
#GoSolo
As I type, I feel energized. My video invite dings then, announcing the beginning of the meeting with my editor, Arial (yes, she was named after a font). She works out of a glassy downtown Chicago high-rise, and I can see the amazing view of Lake Michigan behind her. She runs the online version ofSlick,a women’s fashion magazine that dabbles in advice on perfecting blowjob techniques and what you should be wearing to the clubs if you want to snag a “better than average” one-night stand. You know, just doing my part for feminism.
Arial looks amazing as usual, in an expensive-looking blazer from the designer freebie closet and her cinnamon-brown hair slicked back in the latest twisted fashion. Meanwhile, I’m wearing gray jersey-knit pajamas that can almostpass for street clothes, but not quite, zero makeup, and I realize I’ve got a cowlick sticking up at the back of my head. I try to smooth it down as I notice that my screen partially shows the dirty dishes piling up in my sink. I gently tilt the laptop so Arial doesn’t see I’m a total slob.
“Sora? Good morning?” Arial speaks in questions, and ends her sentences in a lilt. She claims it’s because she lived in Scotland for a year after graduation. I think it’s just because she hates being a boss and telling people what to do. The question at the end makes it sound like she’s politely asking me to do something instead of telling me I have to do it. “So? I was thinking we might shelve ‘Don’t Be Basic with Your Gym Bag’? And instead focus on ‘Top Five Mascaras that Will Make Your Ex Beg to Have You Back’? Editorial just thought it will fit better? Since we’re doing that ‘All My Exes’ theme?”
“Yeah. No problem,” I say, even though I’ve already almost finished the story. That’s a good five hours of work down the drain. But my Japanese American mom always taught me to be agreeable. Instead of “Squeaky wheel gets the grease,” she always says, “The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.”
And writing forSlickisn’t quite the glamorous and important life of writing I had imagined when I won that short-story contest in eighth grade. That’s the year I discovered I actually have a knack for putting words together. My eighth-grade English teacher—astonished at my skill—first accused me of plagiarism. After my sharp-tempered Scottish American dad came to the school with copies of early drafts to convince him that I was no cheat, he apologized. Then he overcompensated and started calling me a prodigy. After that, I spun dreams of winning Pulitzer Prizes. I fell a little short of that, sure, buthey, I’m living the Supporting Myself with Writing dream, so there’s that. Just because I’m not exactly doing the freelance work I once imagined doesn’t mean that I won’t write serious stories that help the world. One day.
Still, the whole mascara article bothers me. I imagine myself slathering on expensive makeup in the desperate hope of making Dan jealous.
“You don’t seem excited?” Arial questions, cocking her head to one side on my screen.
Crap. I hate video calls. And these days, it’s almost all we ever do. And I have the worst poker face. Somehow, she always knows when I’m lying.
“Uh. No. I am.” Lie. “It’s a great story. Fantastic story. It’s so relevant. I’m so glad you pitched it to me.” I take a deep breath. I glance at the open document on my screen. “Solo February.” It has a nice ring to it. But I hesitate. Do I really want to pitch this story? Shouldn’t I just take Arial’s assignment and be nice and noncontroversial because the last thing I want to do is live the Working Three Barista Shifts and Driving Rideshares dream instead of the Supporting Myself with My Writing dream?
“I do have another idea,” I begin anyway, steeling myself for complete rejection. Even as I hear Mom’s voice in my head,Don’t be the nail!
“Oh, yes?”
“Well…” My heart thumps. I hate putting myself out there. That’s why I’d rather stay here in my perpetually half-unpacked condo than pack up my laptop and go do my work at the cute coffee shop at the end of my block. Why did I even suggest this story? I haven’t even fleshed it out. Not at all. She’s going to tell me it’s dumb. “Uh… you know how there’s a Dry January?”
“Yeah? Of course?”
“Well, what if we tried to push Solo February?”
Arial wrinkles her brow. “What do you mean ‘solo’?”
“As in, Stay-Single February or Abstinence February or Love-Free February. Think of it like a dating cleanse. Here, I wrote a rough draft about it.” I cut and paste what I’ve written in the chat. Arial reads it lightning fast. Her face lights up.
“Iloveit, Sora? Yes, yes, yes,yes? Youmustdo this story? #GoSolo literally sells itself?”
“Really?” I’m shocked she likes it so much.
“Why not make it a diary? One entry every day of February? You’ll be the focus? And going solo for February will be a challengeyoudo, and you’ll share with us what happens on your personal journey? We could make it a ‘secret confessions’ series?”
At the mention of the secret confessional series, I suddenly feel uneasy. Past confessions have included “Why I Can’t Stop Having Sex on the Subway” and “I’m Addicted to Facials—for My Butt!”
Do I want to have my story among them? I realize too late, after I’ve already pitched this damn thing, that I’ve never written about my personal life before. I’ve only ever ranked cosmetics and interviewed influencers. Do I really want to write about my personal life for the readers ofSlick? Part of me worries that they’re like the cool girls in school—just making fun of me behind my back.
“This could be really great, though. Like a big break? You have to do it? Have to?” Arial’s still gushing, and my concerns fade away.Slickpays well and pays on time, a freelancer’s dream. Sure, writing about dating isn’t the serious journalismI want to do, but daily articles would triple my word count for the month, and ergo triple my pay. That would mean extra cash to get Larry the good organic, grain-free kibble, the kind that special dog-food farmers grow and cook and then freeze in hand-molded bricks and ship direct to your door. That shit is expensive.
As if reading my mind, Larry nudges my leg with his white snout. Well, I can’t tell that cutie pie no.
“I’ll do it!” I tell Arial, hoping I haven’t made a giant mistake. That I’m not the nail sticking out, waiting to be hammered down.
Two
SORA
This year, I want bacon to be my valentine. I’d rather have a heart attack than a broken heart.
