I read what I wrote.
MALCOLM SAINT
It’s the first time in my career I’ve hit a dry spell. All the love I had for telling stories—a love that was born when I was very young, piecing together stories about my mother—left the day one of those stories took something priceless away.
Something called . . .
MALCOLM SAINT.
I’ve been begging Helen to give me the good stuff. A good piece that could motivate me, make me realize the words I write can make a difference. But she’s been stalling and popping out excuses by the dozen. She tells me that if I’m having trouble with the little pieces, then it’s definitely not the moment for another big one.
Hitting the backspace, I watch the name disappear.
MALCOLM SAIN
MALCOLM SAI
MALCOLM SA
MALCOLM S
MALCOLM
Oh god.
I squeeze my eyes and erase the rest.
On impulse, I reach for my bag, slung on the back of my chair, for the folded paper I carry inside. Taking it out, I unfold it and scan right to the bottom. To the very elaborate, male signature on it.
Malcolm KPL Saint.
The guy who sends my world into a tailspin. The sight of this signature on the page gives me all kinds of aches.
“Rachel!” Sandy calls from across the room. Tucking the paper back into my bag, I peer out of my cubicle and see that she’s pointing into the glass wall separating Helen, my editor, from all of us.
“You’re up!” she calls.
I grab my notes that I also emailed her recently, then go and stand by Helen’s open door. She’s on the phone, signals for me to wait.
“Oh, absolutely! Dinner it is. I’ll bring my best game,” she assures, then she waves me in as she hangs up, beaming.
Well. She’s in a good mood today.
“Hey Helen,” I say. “Did you look at the story options I sent?”
“Yes, and the answer is no.” Her smile fades and she levels me a look. “You’re not writing that.” Sighing, she shuffles the papers on her desk. “Rachel, nobody wants to know about any riot.” She says the word riot like one would say excrement. “You have a lively, energetic voice!” she goes on. “Use it to bring happiness, not focus on what’s wrong in the world. Tell us what’s right. What’s the right thing to wear when dating a hot man? Use what happened with that hot ex of yours to teach girls how to date properly.”
“I’M SINGLE, HELEN—hello? Nobody wants dating advice from someone who screwed her only chance at . . .” I trail off and rub my temples. “Helen, you know I’m having a little problem.”
“That you can’t write?”
I wince.
It hurts because for twenty-something years, writing was all I wanted to do.
“Go on.” Helen points at the door. “Write me something on how to dress for the first date.”
“Helen . . .” I take a few steps forward instead. “Helen, we discussed this before. Remember? How very much I want to write about things that are wrong in the world, in Chicago. I want to write about the underprivileged, the violence in the streets, and while you promised me opportunities, you have given me zero. In fact, lately, the Sharpest Edge column is all about being single and dating in the city. I have no boyfriend and no dating life. I’m not interested in the dating life, especially after what happened. I keep wondering if maybe you gave me a story that impassioned me again . . . I’d hit my stride. In fact, I’m sure I would,” I plead.
“We can’t always write about what we want, we must think of others, and your audience,” she reminded me. “The loyal audience who’s followed you throughout your career is interested in dating advice from you. You dated a very physical and renowned man; don’t throw all that life experience away. Other opportunities will come, Rachel. We’re barely catching our first breath of fresh air. And I need you on more stable ground before we shift your direction again.”
“But weren’t we all about taking risks now in order to take us somewhere?”
“Nope. The owners don’t want more risks right now, while things are stabilizing. Now please. Can I get a break from this riot and safety talk for a few weeks? Can you do that for me?”
I force myself to nod, pursing my lips as I turn to leave. I try not to feel angry and frustrated, but when I come out and hear all the keyboards clacking and watch all my colleagues writing their stories, some with bored faces, some with happy or engrossed faces, I can’t help but ache to write something that gets to me so much, you could see it on my face too.
MALCOLM SAINT
It’s the first time in my career I’ve hit a dry spell. All the love I had for telling stories—a love that was born when I was very young, piecing together stories about my mother—left the day one of those stories took something priceless away.
Something called . . .
MALCOLM SAINT.
I’ve been begging Helen to give me the good stuff. A good piece that could motivate me, make me realize the words I write can make a difference. But she’s been stalling and popping out excuses by the dozen. She tells me that if I’m having trouble with the little pieces, then it’s definitely not the moment for another big one.
Hitting the backspace, I watch the name disappear.
MALCOLM SAIN
MALCOLM SAI
MALCOLM SA
MALCOLM S
MALCOLM
Oh god.
I squeeze my eyes and erase the rest.
On impulse, I reach for my bag, slung on the back of my chair, for the folded paper I carry inside. Taking it out, I unfold it and scan right to the bottom. To the very elaborate, male signature on it.
Malcolm KPL Saint.
The guy who sends my world into a tailspin. The sight of this signature on the page gives me all kinds of aches.
“Rachel!” Sandy calls from across the room. Tucking the paper back into my bag, I peer out of my cubicle and see that she’s pointing into the glass wall separating Helen, my editor, from all of us.
“You’re up!” she calls.
I grab my notes that I also emailed her recently, then go and stand by Helen’s open door. She’s on the phone, signals for me to wait.
“Oh, absolutely! Dinner it is. I’ll bring my best game,” she assures, then she waves me in as she hangs up, beaming.
Well. She’s in a good mood today.
“Hey Helen,” I say. “Did you look at the story options I sent?”
“Yes, and the answer is no.” Her smile fades and she levels me a look. “You’re not writing that.” Sighing, she shuffles the papers on her desk. “Rachel, nobody wants to know about any riot.” She says the word riot like one would say excrement. “You have a lively, energetic voice!” she goes on. “Use it to bring happiness, not focus on what’s wrong in the world. Tell us what’s right. What’s the right thing to wear when dating a hot man? Use what happened with that hot ex of yours to teach girls how to date properly.”
“I’M SINGLE, HELEN—hello? Nobody wants dating advice from someone who screwed her only chance at . . .” I trail off and rub my temples. “Helen, you know I’m having a little problem.”
“That you can’t write?”
I wince.
It hurts because for twenty-something years, writing was all I wanted to do.
“Go on.” Helen points at the door. “Write me something on how to dress for the first date.”
“Helen . . .” I take a few steps forward instead. “Helen, we discussed this before. Remember? How very much I want to write about things that are wrong in the world, in Chicago. I want to write about the underprivileged, the violence in the streets, and while you promised me opportunities, you have given me zero. In fact, lately, the Sharpest Edge column is all about being single and dating in the city. I have no boyfriend and no dating life. I’m not interested in the dating life, especially after what happened. I keep wondering if maybe you gave me a story that impassioned me again . . . I’d hit my stride. In fact, I’m sure I would,” I plead.
“We can’t always write about what we want, we must think of others, and your audience,” she reminded me. “The loyal audience who’s followed you throughout your career is interested in dating advice from you. You dated a very physical and renowned man; don’t throw all that life experience away. Other opportunities will come, Rachel. We’re barely catching our first breath of fresh air. And I need you on more stable ground before we shift your direction again.”
“But weren’t we all about taking risks now in order to take us somewhere?”
“Nope. The owners don’t want more risks right now, while things are stabilizing. Now please. Can I get a break from this riot and safety talk for a few weeks? Can you do that for me?”
I force myself to nod, pursing my lips as I turn to leave. I try not to feel angry and frustrated, but when I come out and hear all the keyboards clacking and watch all my colleagues writing their stories, some with bored faces, some with happy or engrossed faces, I can’t help but ache to write something that gets to me so much, you could see it on my face too.
