I’m not sure what the right thing to say is, so I don’t sayanything at all. Instead, I stand there, hoping the fact that he isn’t alone is enough right now. After a few minutes, however, there is a question that’s burning in my mind.
“Can I ask you something?”
He looks at me, and the look is permission in itself.
“Why have you stayed at King all these years? It sounds like you’ve been working your tail off for a long time to take over the business, yet your dad keeps coming up with excuses to remain at the head of the table. Wouldn’t it have been easier both professionally and personally if you’d left to work for another publishing house a long time ago?”
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But it honestly never even entered my mind. You have to understand, working with Dad hasn’t always been this dynamic that it is now. I remember a few times as a child when he kept me home from school and brought me to the office instead. I’d sit on his lap during meetings, and he’d talk about how it would all be mine someday. Like a birthright. That it was a privilege and a responsibility.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s always been hard to please and had impossible standards that no one could dare to live up to, but for the most part, he was a good mentor and teacher. It’s only been in the last—oh, I don’t know—five to seven years, I guess, when we all started to really press him about retirement that he began pushing back the way he is now.”
I nod, reminded of my own parents waving off my concerns about their retirement, not wanting to discuss the details and logistics.
“Anyway,” Julien continues, “I can’t imagine working anywhere else. King Publishing is in my blood. It’s a part of me, and I love it there. Besides, if I walked away, I wouldn’t just be walking away from a job. I’d be abandoning my father when he needs me most. He isn’t usually such an unreasonable man, and I just have to keep hoping and praying that one day he’ll wake up and listen to everyone—me, Mom, the board, hismedical team—and realize change is necessary. And I have to pray that day comes before he does irreparable harm to his health. And the only way to do that is to keep showing up. Keep presenting the conversation until one day he finally listens.”
“And if logic doesn’t work, then your simultaneous plan of proving yourself by accomplishing the near-impossible task of turning around a dying children’s imprint in record-breaking time, which was presented as an appeasement measure and which he probably more than half expects you to fail at but also probably desperately wants you to succeed, will have to go off without a hitch.”
Julien releases a wry chuckle. “I think you’ve got a handle on things.”
“Easy peasy,” I say, hoping to lighten some of the weight that seems to be pressing down on his shoulders.
He chuckles again, but this time I hear the genuine humor in the sound. “Lemon squeezy.”
11
It’s not until I’m sitting in the airport on Tuesday that I think of all the things Julien and I should have discussed before now. I’m not completely ignorant on how writing conferences and pitch appointments go, but I’ve never attended one in person as an author and I sure as shootin’ have never attended one as an industry professional. It would’ve been nice to have a more complete picture on how the appointments were going to go specifically instead of the vague idea I have in my head. Also, now that he’s done a bit of research, does Julien have more of an idea on what type of story he’s looking for Squire to acquire? A little more direction would be nice is all I’m saying.
But I haven’t heard much from him since our talk at Signal Point. To be fair, we’ve both been busy. Or at least I know I have been. I’ve spent as many hours as I could at the library, walking Evangeline and Hayley through the details of running the programs for the rest of the month. I’ve tried to spend as much time with my little patrons as possible as well. It’s been a bittersweet last few days, to say the least.
As I’m sitting here, I’m also wondering if I should’ve let Julien know that I’ve never flown before. There are definitely feelings happening inside me right now as I sit at the gate twohours early like the rule follower that I am that have nothing to do with wondering how the conference is going to go. There aren’t any other passengers at the gate yet, including Julien, so maybe I should’ve taken into consideration that Chattanooga is a small airport and getting through security took me almost no time at all.
Oh well. Now I get to sit here and consider if the aforementioned feelings coalescing in my chest are excitement or anxiety. Right now, it’s a whole Schrödinger’s cat thing. You know, the scientist who put a hypothetical cat in a box with some poison and after a while said cat could be considered both simultaneously alive and dead, but you won’t know for certain until you open the box. I’m sure there’s more to it than that. The guy was a famous Austrian physicist, after all. But considering my knowledge of his thought experiment comes fromThe Big Bang Theoryreruns, I’m good with having a grasp on just the gist.
The point is, I don’t think I’ll know whether I’m excited or nervous about flying until I actually get on the plane and up in the air. Although by then there isn’t much I’ll be able to do if these feelings turn out to be a fear of flying, is there?
I need to get my mind off of this as well as the added pressure I’ve been feeling ever since Signal Point.
Bending down, I rummage through my personal bag and pull out my notebook and a pen. The airport is relatively quiet, but a low buzz of activity has never bothered me before. In fact, I find it creatively energizing. As I open my composition notebook and turn the pages to where I left off, I can picture my mother’s smug expression. As if I am currently proving her point that I still write and that my stories are what can save Squire.
Except my writing isn’t a career direction for me anymore. It’s a hobby, a creative outlet. Like painting or crocheting or, I don’t know, gardening. One doesn’t have to make moneywith something they enjoy. In fact, I probably wouldn’t enjoy it if I did turn it into a job. Because then my words would be subject to scrutiny, bad reviews, and rejections.
What Mom doesn’t know is that Mr. King isn’t the only publisher I ever sent any of my stories to. I had thought like her once too. That years of studying the craft had maybe grown my skills. Besides, even the greats got rejected a time or two. So, I’d submitted a book proposal to a few other editors. Entered a couple of contests. But when all the feedback came back with varying degrees of kindness wrapped around the same message that I’m not good enough, I decided that maybe it was time to listen to the professionals.
Even after that, I couldn’tnotwrite, though. Plots would develop in my mind, and characters would start talking to each other, the dialogue zipping back and forth in my head, and it would be all I could think about until I got it all down on the page. Notebooks were filled, and complete books were written. Occasionally I’ve considered self-publishing, bypassing industry gatekeepers, so to speak. But that takes money I don’t have, and, I admit, I’m afraid readers aren’t going to like my plots and characters any more than the contest judges and editors did.
But Mom was wrong on one account. I’m not the only one who reads my work. The kids in the writing circle at the library do. I can’t ask them to be open and vulnerable and share their work if I’m not willing to do the same myself. It’s probably a little sad how much their excitement and overall gushing is a balm to my injured pride. At least I have a couple of fans. Even if they are my parents and mentees.
I flip back to the beginning of the last chapter I wrote and read to familiarize and immerse myself back into the story. I’ve been writing Layla and Max books for so long now that their characters are second nature to me. Siblings of archaeologist parents, they stumble into a secret chamber with an indecipherableinscription along one wall. When they go to brush off the ancient hieroglyphics, they’re pulled into a magical portal and transported to some of the most significant historical events where they must not only survive but also figure out a way to get back home. The genre is a mash-up of magical realism, historical fiction, and adventure. If I was pressed, I’d say the books could be compared to MagicTreeHouseand I Survived, but I’d hate to do that because those two series are so good and beloved and I could never put my own writing on the same shelves as those authors’ works.
I get so absorbed in the world of 252 BCE aboard a Roman quinquereme during the First Punic War, where Max and Layla have been pressed as two of the 280 oarsmen in Rome’s fight against Carthage for control over Sicily, that I lose all track of time. A minute could have passed or an hour, I don’t know. All I know is that Layla’s secret about her true gender is in danger of being discovered, which could make the siblings’ already perilous predicament even more dire.
“What has you so engrossed?” A deep voice from over my shoulder penetrates my concentration and kickstarts my heart rate.
I startle and whirl around, my notebook falling to the floor. Julien straightens as he holds up his hands in a placating motion.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I said your name, but you were so focused that you didn’t hear me.” He looks curiously down at my notebook. “What were you writing?”
I swallow and will my heart back to its normal rhythm. I pick up my notebook and return it to my bag. “Nothing important. Just jotting down some things that I was thinking about.”
