Chapter 13: Conversations (page 3)
by Emmet
I realized, feeling foolish, how that must have sounded, and quickly elaborated. “I mean, once you make those changes, which shouldn’t take long, what do you want to do with the story?”
“I, I don’t know…” she fingered the corner of the top paper.
“I said several months ago, you’re going to start needing to show these to other people. That’s why we write, isn’t it? To be read?”
“Yes… but… well, you’ve read them.”
“Broaden your audience, Grace. You could leave it lying around your house. Leave it on your coffee table, for example, sort of accidentally –
“On purpose?” she added, looking at me directly.
I smiled, and she did too.
“And that’s for family feedback. You could also,” and I pulled out the contact list and handed to her, “send it to a magazine.”
“What, like a student publication or something?”
“No,” I said. “Like a real publication. Like The New Yorker or The Atlantic Monthly. Now, those are two highly competitive magazines for fiction, and this story probably isn’t right for them – you need to read potential publications and know their style, and see what’s compatible with yours. But there are dozens of literary magazines from which acceptance would be an honor.”
“Wow. You really think I could get this published?”
“I can’t guarantee anything. I know I like this story, I think it holds together very well, and I want to keep reading it. Then again,” I added without thinking, “ I might be biased.”
Out eyes met again and she smiled.
“Look,” I said. “Revise your story and send it out to TriQuarterly. It’s Northwestern’s literary mag. They publish first-rate stuff – I’ll show you a copy. Even if you get rejected from them, if they send you anything other than a form letter, it means they’ve really read it and thought it was worthwhile. And if they say no, there are several others you can try.”
“Wow,” she said again. “I mean, I just never thought about publishing now. And, well, this story is, to be honest, kind of personal.” She looked down, fingering the shell around her neck.
“I figured,” I said. “That must have been difficult.”
“It’s just, all the changes. When I was, I don’t know, 11, 12, I never expected my life to change, other than the normal way it just does because you get older. I thought the people, my parents, my family, would always be what it was, people I could believe in. And when… my father… it just kind of changes how you look at the whole world, you know?”
“Believe it or not, I do,” I said. “High school can do that to anyone, but when you have your core fabric being torn and patched together into entirely different patterns, it’s hard to know where you stand.”
“Exactly!” she exclaimed. “I mean, it’s been a few years now, I’ve gotten used to it, but I still feel like I’m going to have that rug pulled out again and cut up into an entirely new shape all over. Oh!” She stopped talking and made another note on her story. Then, “Are your parents still together?” she asked.
Oddly, I found myself wishing I could tell a parallel story, an “I went exactly through what you’re going through” tale. Except I’m glad I didn’t. “Very much so,” I said. “My childhood was disgustingly straightforward and happily all-American. Well, with a few exceptions.”
“Exceptions?”
“Well, home life was always good. I could count on that. School was… something of a challenge. It can be hard when you’re smarter than everyone else, and know it, and indicate that you know it.”
“You didn’t.”
“Grace, I was publishing poems in national magazines before I was 18.”
“Wow. So do you still write?”
The five minute end-of-lunch warning bell rang., and we both jumped. I took a breath. “That, Grace, is a long story. Suffice it to say, believe in your writing now, and love it if you do. Now,” I stood, and returned my untouched lunch to its paper bag, “Assignment for next week: final revisions, query letter to the TriQuarterly, and leave a copy of the revised story in your living room.”
“Without you checking it?”
“That’s right. You are always going to be your own final editor.”
She gathered her papers together and stood, walked to the door, turned. “Oh – what about the Gay/Straight Alliance dance – should we have a planning meeting or something?”
“Yes – thanks for remembering. Definitely. Any days better for you?”
“Tuesday or Wednesday,” she said.
“I’ll schedule it in.”
“Okay. See you Monday?”
“Yes… have a good weekend.” And she was gone. I’ll miss you, I added silently.