Page 87 of A Bookish Story

“That’s ridiculous,” the bookseller says. “She can obviously write a book, why hire someone to do it for her?”

“Is she going to answer the question or not?” Holly’s eyes narrow.

Holly is angrier than I expected but I’m not surprised. I’ve ignored her for weeks as my life took a turn I’d never dreamed of. She wanted answers I couldn’t give her.

Several seconds lapse in which my life flashes before my eyes. There’s a pebble in my windpipe and I can’t swallow. My mouth is dry enough to be sandpaper. I was afraid I would freeze up. But of all the things I worried about, not one was a friend flying all the way from Missouri to humiliate me.

But it turns out I don’t need Ryan here and I don’t need anyone else. I speak for myself and no one needs to do this for me. No one has to stand up and defend me because I can do that myself. I have the words and strength I need. It doesn’t matter whether or not I wrote this book, I can write books. I’ve written many for which someone else has always taken the credit. And I’ve made an arrangement with a man who has come to mean a lot to me. I will honor it for the sake of his reputation and because he’s a good man even if he made a mistake.

He doesn’t deserve his entire career to go down in flames because of one viral video made when he was suffering. We have access to everything on the Internet now, and it lives forever. Maybe what we all need to learn is how to forgive each other for being human.

“No, I did not hire a ghostwriter for this book.”

And that, my friends, is the truth.

“Next question,” the bookseller barks.

Holly sits with a grunt.

A man in the back stands. “I’m Brett from the Writing Out Loud podcast. I was actually going to pose a similar question to the author, because this entire book is written from the male’s perspective. A single point of view. You’re a woman, how can you know what a man goes through? What he feels? How can you live his experience? It isn’t authentic.”

Every woman in the store turns to look at him like he’s a flea but none with greater contempt than my mother. I’m happy to say his shoulders slump visibly when it occurs to him that plenty of men have written the female perspective and gotten away with this inauthentically for eons.

It happens so fast no one sees it coming, but my mother heads straight toward the man. I catch Eddie trying to grab her arm but misses. Once she reaches the man she gives him several swats with her purse while everyone, including my cousins, whip out their phones and do their thing. They start filming.

And now this too shall live forever.

“How dare you!” Mami yells.

“It’s a reasonable question!” the man says, ducking and covering his head.

My mother stops hitting him long enough to yell back, “Do you know how many male writers have told a story from a woman’s perspective? ALL of them. Let me tell you, sir, a woman’s special place does not look like flower petals! Also, bosoms don’t heave and nipples don’t talk to each other. How dare you suggest my daughter isn’t a wonderful writer? She. Is. A. Wonderful. Writer!”

Mami emphasizes each word with a generous purse slap. She’s not really hurting the man but it’s quite embarrassing anyway. Everyone with a phone is filming this, which is…everyone. This is going to be all over social media in moments. I’m standing on the dais taking shallow breaths, watching it all unfold, wondering how this will look to Ryan, Kate, Pepper, and the publisher. They’re going to be sorry they ever hired me for this farce. Hopefully they believe in the old adage, “all publicity is good publicity.” Part of me wants to scream and the other wants to run out of here while no one will notice me leaving.

Ryan. Where in the ever-loving hell is Ryan?

It isn’t until the bookstore clerk uses a bull horn that people stop yelling and my mother stops smacking.

“Inside voices!” The bookseller declares from the chair where she’s standing while making the peace sign. “Please form a line if you’d like Elizabeth to sign your book! If you’ve preordered you’re at the front of the line.”

Apparently the police don’t need to be called and we’re all going to behave like civilized people again. The man my mother attacked with her purse rushes out (smart man) and a line begins to form. I’m led to the table and chair where I can sit and sign books. I’m out of breath and having an out-of-body experience but I can do this. I’ve been hired to straddle this morally gray area and here I am, killing it. I think.

Of course, I’m still wondering where the hell Ryan is.

The first person in line is Holly, who says, “Make it out to ‘my long-time critique partner who has over the years guided my career with invaluable insight and support.’”

It takes me a while to write it all out, but I do, because it’s true. She guessed the truth because she knows me. I didn’t write the book but I can’t admit it, even to her. She could have been nicer and not humiliated me in front of a crowd, but I sign the book and say, “Thank you for your support.”

She huffs and walks away.

The long line continues with people I’ve never met, ending with my family, whom I have met many times. Eddie and Mami have a stack of books for me to sign.

“I’m giving them as Christmas presents,” Mami says to those in line behind her, tapping the cover of the book. “This is my daughter’s book.”

The fact she’s proud of me even if she knows the truth fills me with hope. Maybe someday she’ll be proud of a book I’ve actually written. It would be nice but I don’t need her to be proud. I’m proud of myself.

Later, after everyone’s gone, I express my deep apologies to the bookseller over the chaos.