"In Which Reality is to Continuously Shoot Oneself in the Foot"

(Pt. 2)

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10:40 AM

Pulse Publishing Inc., New York City, NY 

https://youtu.be/Jrdl14MGEvA

I don't got this. I am so not done.

What the hell did Travers get me into?

"You look young, for someone with connections to the CEO."

Just like her lovely assistant, she gives me the elevator stare* — as expected — her narrow lips pursed into a silent sneer. 

Her expression was as stiff as a marble, nose proudly tilted upwards. She stares at me like a falcon scrutinizing a field of grass for prey and finding nothing but wet grass and mud.

As if I've already been weighed, measured, and found lacking.

Needless to say, I was all-too-familiar with the look since childhood. From the stifling etiquette classes with private tutors and countless luncheons and soirees under the watchful eyes of the town's society mavens. 

However, it was her remark amidst the long awkward tension-filled silence that cut through my thick cloud of reverie and rendered me unable to get a word out.

How can I not be? I'm sitting in front of this modern-day stuck-up Sphinx of the Concrete Jungle* — in her Den of Judgment — who may, or may not secure my future in the literary arts.

Ugh, why now of all times did Travers suddenly develop the magnanimity to hand the credits over to me? I was fine blending in the shadows. 

My fingers itch to touch one of the many books that were organized and placed neatly in a ten-foot bookcase. I could tell from some of the titles that they haven't been released yet.

I roam my eyes around the office, taking note of the minimal and well-organized interior. A few frames were hanging on the walls, but nothing too personal. 

The furniture had an interesting variation of contrast in color and shape, resembling fine geometric lines and a triadic color scheme of red, blue, and yellow.

Her desk, decked with glass on top and curved at the bottom in a Postmodernist Art Nouveau,* consisted of a laptop, a coaster for her cup of tea, and a stack of binders.

Her chair, I'm guessing, must be comfy too.

Unlike, mine.

Oh, wait, that wasn't the root cause of my discomfort.

Aside from the occasional wintry stare thrown in my way, it was the sound of page after page being flipped that raised the intimidation level to a thousand — making me regret ever taking Pop's advice more and more.

Who was I kidding? I'll never be good enough, or look and act the part enough to get my foot in the door. 

The only thing keeping me in place was my confidence of being literate enough to detect any spelling and grammatical errors — and the sudden loss of feeling in my legs.

I subtly pound the side of the legs. Work, legs, dammit!

It took me a moment to realize she had inquired about something. Problem is, I don't know what it was.

So, instead, I chose the safest answer. "And, you look not your age."

I silently gasp and do a double-take. 

She simply sniffs, her reticent eyes never leaving my manuscript.

Fuck! That wasn't the answer! That was an insult!

Fucking Ave, have you not heard of the two unspoken rules? Never ask or comment on a woman's age or weight.

And, you call yourself a woman, you numbnuts!

Wait, I can salvage this!

"Erm, what I meant was that you look"— I pause and gesture at her — "glamorous and stuff. Who's the CEO, again?" I ask, hoping to divert the topic.

Turns out, I couldn't salvage it, at all.

She sniffs again.

It's either she wasn't as easily duped or there was an actual flu season* that I didn't know about.

"I'll pretend you didn't just say that," she calmly says, taking a fountain pen from her desk and scribbling something on one of the pages. "And, stop fidgeting."

I glance down at my leg which had been shaking non-stop since our meeting (if you can call this a meeting). 

I try, with all my might, to clamp it down. But, with nothing much to do, the urge to move is unavoidable.

Curiosity peaked inside me as to what she was writing down. 

I subtly crane my neck up, lifting my butt off the chair in the process.

CLACK! The low-key clasp of the binder brought my attention back to my current position.

My butt plops down the chair, straightening my shoulders.

She finally takes her eyes off my work and regards me again. She throws the binder on the desk. Her hands, fastened around the fingers, were placed on top of it.

"I'll be honest, this is just a formality. However, I can't help but be curious as to why Warrick kept on insisting on having you. I've had dozens of young aspiring authors your age or younger walk through that door" — she points with the tip of her pen — "with at least a decent amount of social media presence and followers. You on the other hand, nobody has ever heard of, save for your club advisor and English professor. Hence, it begs the question of why we should publish you."

I clear my throat, recalling exactly what Travers and I had rehearsed. "Actually, the storyline of the game we're making right now"—

"Yes, yes," she waves her hand impatiently, "I seem to recall Warrick saying you write for"— she purses her lips — "video games. But we need a more narrative format. For instance"— she shrugs delicately — "a book. Do you have anything else prepared with you?"

Oh, shit. We never got to rehearse this part.

I clutch my messenger bag for support, sensing the unmistakable bulge of my tablet. An idea pops into my head.

"Well, uhm, I've been working on this story. Just playing around with words and stuff."

She clicks her pen. "Play? How adorably juvenile."

Somehow, I don't think that was meant as a compliment

I wrestle to regain my whole composure, but, damn, she is making this so hard!

She sighs as if my very existence was an exhausting sight to behold. "We don't have any other choice, do we? We'll go with that. Do you have it with you?"

"With me? Oh, yes!" — I clear my throat — "Yes. It's right here," I pull out my beat-up tablet from my bag.

I open the app and then hand it to her outstretched hand.

She doesn't bother to comment on the cracks onscreen and proceeds to scroll upwards. "How many chapters are there left to write about?"

I hesitate. "I'm not sure"— mentally estimating the numbers and settling with — "a lot?"

"Hm," she muses for a bit, her eyes scanning the screen at such a rapid pace. "And, what is the title?

"Uhm, Misfits."

"Misfits?" she repeats incredulously.

I take a  deep calming breath. "Yes, The Misfits."*

She nods, handing the tablet back to me. "A bit plain and derivative, not that I expected anything much to begin with. What happens to them?"

"Well, I don't wanna spoil you. You see, you have to read the story"— I catch my breath — "I just realized, the story isn't as complete." Yikes!

She casts me a bored look. "Do prattle on. God knows, how it thrills me to have somebody waste my time with an unrealized draft."

"Oh well"— I fiddle with my fingers — "the plot revolves around some crazy Sci-Fi DNA-splicing elements, a few government conspiracies here and there. There's this hybrid species that was brainwashed and experimented on by this evil organization. Of course,"— I roll my eyes — "nobody expected them to be evil at first"— I pause, clearly she wasn't amused — "Anyways, some of 'em felt enough was enough so they decided to rebel. It just so happens that there's this new kid whose power charts are off the roof, and now everybody wants to take him but he refuses because he's trying to help a girl recover her memories"—

She presses a button on her desk. "Danielle, send in my next appointment"— she turns back to me — "I'm sorry, but you clearly misunderstood my question. What I meant was, what happens to them?"

Eyes narrowing, I try to digest the words she's implying. "They work together to find out more about Cole and the secrets about the town? Liberate their kind?"

"Is that all?" She inquires, still unimpressed.

I gawk at her. "Should there be?"

"You tell me," she says, fishing out another binder from the stack and scanning the contents. "We are a very busy publishing house. Not to mention,with the prestige that we carry, we have to hold the quality of every book we produce to a high standard, something"— she eyes me pointedly — "a young schoolgirl as you can barely imagine."

I frown. "I know. I'm quite aware of that."

"Your writing, hmm," she purses her lips and taps her chin with a finger, her eyes gazing into the distance. "How should I say this? "Right"— she flutters her eyes at me — "an impetuous attempt to escape how scary the real world is according to the words of a childish and callow teenage narrative."

I chewed the inside of my lips, my blood running cold. So, that's it then?

She sighs impatiently. "But, your book might have potential."

My jaw drops open. "It does?"

Her head snaps towards me. "I said, 'might'. The question is, how fit are you to be one of our writers?"

"I think I'm a hard worker, and I'm open to critiques... and — you're not listening," I trail off, watching her resume her inspection on another binder.

"You think?" — she tuts — "I see, it's all a matter of self-evaluation now — and knowing the right people."

I scoff, dropping any form of niceties, and leveled my gaze to hers, "I'm sorry. I was told to come here, because I was referred to by someone."

If she was caught unaware of my sudden change in attitude, she didn't show it. 

Instead, she goads me even more. "'Told', so you don't want it."

"I do want it!" I cry out, unable to hold my nerves anymore. "I want it so much, I'm basically standing in front of you shaking while you play your lil' mind game!"— I gasp. My hand automatically shoots up and clamps around my mouth like a muzzle. "Shit, I shouldn't have said that."

She continues to stare at me, clearly unperturbed and used to people suffering into fits of tactless outbursts in front of her. 

"Hm, then I don't suppose you'd mind participating in our biannual writing competition — as part of our selection process, of course. After all, to be invited alone would already be quite an achievement for someone of your ... caliber," she deliberately phrases in an unhurried pace.

I eye her suspiciously. "What do I need to do?"

She blinks. "But, first, do you want it?"

"Duh — I mean, yes!"— I clear my throat — "I do want it."

"Marvelous. I personally look forward to seeing your work"— a glacial smile forms on her lips — "think of it as a favor if you will. Make sure to submit a revised copy of your draft's first half — the refinement of grammar and plot points included."

My brows furrow. "Plot points?"

She doesn't bother to answer me (like, why do I even ask?) and continues with her instructions.

"I also need your concepts for the rest of the books in this series"— she taps on my tablet —After all, we wouldn't want to deprive the audience of what they could possibly want, and I reckon that the majority of the focus group to read your work would be females."

"Uh"— I raise my hand — "sorry to interrupt you, but what spot did you have in store for me, exactly?"

She lightly chuckles, though the standoffish expression in her eyes was a different matter. 

"Oh, I simply forgot to tell you. You would be qualifying for Young Adult Romance. I assume you won't be having any problems with that?", she peeks at me through her lashes, daring me to contradict her.

"Romance?" I snort, " I'm pretty sure that's not my kind of story to tell."

She raises an imperious brow. "Well, that's a shame, since it's the only spot open. I guess you don't want it after all," she shrugs her slim shoulders in mock-disappointment.

I blink frantically. "I didn't say"—

"You want to be in Pulse? Prove it. Show me how versatile you are. Think of it as a try-out of sorts. I'll be expecting your draft by the end of the year on my desk, and I will decide if we take you in or not."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," I bite out. "I don't do romance."

I glare at her, hands clenching tight around the strap of my bag. "What happens if I can't deliver?"

Fingers crisscrossed together and her chin propped on her hand, she reminds me of every female Disney villain. One corner of her lips twists into a satisfied half-smile. 

"Try self-publishing or any online writing platforms. Either way, don't bother coming back. That is all," she swivels her chair in the opposite direction, effectively cutting me from her view, grabbing another binder, and examining its contents.

Clearly, she was done with me.

Well, I'm done with Her Snobby Editorialness!

A short rap resembling the sound of bone against glass resonates from one of the walls.

I turn around and see Danielle signaling at me from outside.

"What are you waiting for? Get out of there!" she mouths, her bent thumb motioning to the door.

With a breezy saccharine smile, I bend my waist into a mock-bow. "Thanks for the time."

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First of all, I'm ba-a-ck.

Second, what have I missed?

I know it's been like 5 or 6 months since I last updated my story, and the reason for that is I'm just not a good person at managing my time.

I'm still really grateful though, for those who are reading my story. I mean, we've got plenty of time now, right? (shiii, bad joke!)

So, a pesky student of mine is talking all about productivity. My student - to me, the teacher. That got me thinking, and here we are.

Back to the story.

I know the situation is difficult right now, especially with the pandemic going around and catching everyone off-guard. And I think, now is probably one of those times where creatives are given this opportunity, aside from a social responsibility of being part of the community, to give back and offer a temporary escape to the readers and viewers with their works.

I'm not suggesting it's better to ignore reality and sequester ourselves in make-believe. It's more about spreading positivity and optimism, that by inspiring others and letting them see the brighter picture, we can face this situation with courage.

Anyways, on a lighter note, have you ever been on a job interview? if you do, how was it and what do you think Ave should've said and done in her own interview?

Leave your answers in the comment section.

Don't forget to vote and share!

See you guys soon - hopefully.

xxLei

P.S. Scroll down below for a short sneak-peek of my next chapter: "In Which Reality Is Blessed with Savage Friends".

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PLAYLIST

Money — The Doors

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*[F/N]*

Elevator-Stare — when someone looks another person up and down, giving their eyes the resemblance of elevators. (usually out of pure judgment).

Spinx of the Concrete Jungle — The Sphinx (Egyptian Mythology) is an evil and cruel creature that asks riddles and those who cannot answer it have suffered the fate of being killed and eaten by the monster according to mythological stories.   New York City is often called "the concrete jungle."

Actual Flu Season — (DITCH: Episode 15, Pt. 1 Reference) Leighton previously implied that some staff members conveniently caught a flu and did not report to work.

Postmodernist Art Nouveau — Postmodern art is a body of art movements that sought to contradict some aspects of modernism or some aspects that emerged or developed in its aftermath. Art Nouveau is an art movement characterized by ornamentation and sinuous curving forms, typically inspired by nature.

The Misfits  — a little easter-egg/shout-out to my other book.

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SNEAK PEEK

"I'm-writing-a-book."

"I'm sorry, dear. I'm a bit deaf in my upstage ear" — Emile cups his ear — " Would you mind repeating that?"

I mutter under my breath, "I'm-writing-a-book."

Tamieke's nose scrunches up. "You're riding a what?"

I raise my eyes at the ceiling.

In a faltering voice, I repeat myself one word at a time. "I'm. Writing. A. Book."

I feel my face start to heat, my head beginning to feel light as the blood flows solely towards my ears.

"Fuck, this is embarrassing, okay?!" — I cry out, covering my face with my hands — "Just go ahead and say it's stupid.".

With bated breath, I peek through the tiny gaps in between my fingers, impatient to see the reaction on their faces.

There weren't any —just random expressions suspended in time.

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André