Writing Off the Past Read online

  The book store wouldn’t require pleasant banter or ad libs like the waitressing job, so she tried there first. Books were like old friends, interesting companions who didn’t say things like I told you so and He was an asshole anyway. Krista already said those things to herself.

  She took the application to the center of the store, where overstuffed chairs sat in a semicircle. Probably for book clubs, or informal gatherings. In the slot asking for her last position, she avoided mentioning copywriter, instead writing administrative assistant. Better to give Mrs. Everhardt as wide a berth as possible.

  Two men stood behind the counter ignoring her approach. One pointed at the computer. “What is this?”

  The other shrugged. “I was on break.”

  The face of the first man reddened. “You’re fired!”

  The second grumbled, bent to retrieve a backpack, shuffled to the door.

  The angry man glared until the other retreated, then turned to Krista. “May I help you?”

  She hoped so. Temporarily, at least. “Here’s my application.”

  Evaluations always made her uncomfortable. She let her gaze wander while he scanned the front, then back. “How long before you call, usually?”

  “You can start now, if you like. We were already down one for tonight, but now it’s two. If I’m late again, my wife will kill me.”

  “Really?”

  “Unless you’re addicted to porn sites, like your immediate predecessor.” He clicked the mouse with a wince.

  “No. Absolutely not.” Twice, Ethan had suggested they surf porn sites for “inspiration.” The images both fascinated and repelled her. The effect on Ethan had been a little more profound, and longer-lasting. He couldn’t look away from the screen while he pumped away in a frenzy atop her. She found him later that night at the computer again, seeking inspiration without her.

  The book store manager peered over his reading glasses. “Good. Come around the counter and I’ll show you a few basics.”

  Krista hoped osmosis would kick in listening to him run through the instructions.

  “It’ll be quiet tonight. At least, quiet here at the desk. Not in the store. It’s Open Mic night.” He shot her one of those confidence-inducing smiles meant to convey his trust in Krista’s abilities to function efficiently after a meager five-minute orientation. “I’m Dave, by the way. Dave Argyle. Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks.” She stood, the strap of her handbag still slung across her shoulder, unsure what to do next. Working hadn’t been part of the plan for this evening, but then again, she had no plans anyway. After clicking through a few screens, she found the store’s software less than intuitive.

  Nervousness jangled through her as more people milled through the aisles, but most congregated in the coffee shop. The stage was a small half-circle set in the corner. Krista’s vantage point from the register provided a clear view down the aisle.

  At seven o’clock, feedback seared through the air. A girl adjusted the mic stand. When she smiled at the crowd, her teeth flashed freakishly white, contrasting her pink-streaked dark hair. She thanked everyone for coming and invited them to the stage one by one.

  Taking their turns at the microphone were poets, writers, and an odd musician or two. Some more odd than others, Krista thought. The patrons sat mostly silent; it was an erudite crowd, after all. A well-shot look spoke volumes.

  Business at the register ground to a halt, so she listened to the poets. The syncopated rhythm of their words encircled her head like smoke around a fire. She was captured. She didn’t realize she’d been listening with her eyes closed until someone cleared his throat on the other side of the counter. She jerked straight with a gasp, a prickly blush crawling across her cheeks.

  The cute guy across the counter smiled as if he’d caught her in a lewd act.

  “A patron of the arts?” He handed her his purchase–a book of poetry by Billy Collins, she noted. She also noted how striking his grey eyes were, rimmed with full lashes, dark as his layered hair.

  “It was wonderful.” She scanned the book’s bar code. To her relief, the monitor displayed the book title and amount. “Eighteen forty-five, please.”

  He swiped his debit card through the machine. “Are you a writer?”

  Again, relief when the system recognized his card and completed the sale.

  “Not for a while. I used to write for our college journal–poetry, some articles, short stories.” She slipped his book into a bag and held it out.

  His hand closed around the bag, his fingertips touching hers. “You should come to our writers’ meeting.”

  “When’s that?” The only writers’ meetings she’d attended were in high school, to discuss stories for the school newspaper. In middle school, she and her friends read their poetry during sleepovers. An adult group of authors might not ‘oooh’ and ‘aaaah’ at her prose the way Sue and Cindy had.

  But this guy would be there. Maybe she would go to one or two.

  He flashed that smile again, and grabbed the bookstore calendar of events from the counter. She’d forgotten to put one in his bag, and apologized.

  “New here, huh?”

  “Tonight’s my first night.” And she’d thought her first sale had gone so well.

  “If you’re free Tuesday….” He pointed to the calendar square for the Tuesday following.

  After weeks of sloshing in self-pity and solitude, an invitation to a group event sounded like exactly what she needed. An impersonal gathering, free of any requirement to answer questions such as How are you? or What’s new? “Thanks. Maybe I will.”

  His grin intensified. She watched him leave, then found herself embarrassed when he caught her glancing as he passed the store window.

  * * * *

  Tuesday seemed an uninspired day to hold a writer’s meeting. Other than the Moody Blues’ song, Krista didn’t know of any other poem or song it had spawned. But maybe that’s what made it an ideal night to meet–writers wrote on other nights, and tore each other apart on Tuesday, releasing all their frustrations from being blocked, of too many rejections from hack agents.

  Krista worked until five, hung around the in-store café reading literary magazines. The tightly-written, well-plotted stories daunted her enthusiasm. She hadn’t written for years, and this group would surely peg her for a fraud. Tonight, she decided, she would merely listen. She tucked the scant pages she’d labored over these past few days into her purse and made her way to the overstuffed chairs in the center of the store.

  Nine people showed up–men and women of varying ages, from GenY to Boomer. The writer who’d invited her smiled and sat down. She was embarrassed to realize, when she said hello, that she’d neglected to ask his name.

  A fifty-something man introduced himself as Guy–such a generic name. Following introductions all around, Krista forgot everyone else but Todd, whose smile tonight appeared less lewd than outright pleased. As if he’d hoped she’d accept his invitation, and was happy to see her. It had been too long since someone made her feel so good about something so simple; she’d merely shown up.

  Guy asked the woman to his right, May—a completely ambiguous thing to call any person—to hand out copies of her manuscript. It was a poem about a middle-aged woman’s feelings of loss after her children left home, her husband less responsive to her now than ever. Krista blushed, feeling as though she’d peeked into the woman’s bedroom window. So much for impersonal. May didn’t seem to mind listening to the group critique her life.

  And so it went: a thirtyish businessman passed around his horror story, a thirtyish woman her fantasy romance, a fiftyish lady her mystery. The others made instructive and thoughtful comments, the lone exception being Charlene, a sci-fi writer who apparently hated everything.

  Todd wrote a story about a computer geek who time traveled by accident. He watched her intently as she praised his prose as smart and funny, the kind she enjoyed reading, and the type of story with mass market appeal. At her turn, his a
ttention focused again–and with some disappointment–when she declined to share her writing. Still too raw, she explained. Next time, she told herself. She’d read more magazines over the next month, brush up on basics.

  Guy wrapped up the meeting at a few minutes past nine. Todd shoved his notepad in his messenger bag and jockeyed around moving bodies to Krista’s seat before she could vacate it.

  “Hey, would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

  “Oh. Now?” She shouldered her handbag and stood, noting the pleasant sensation of sliding upward, parallel to his length.

  His shoulders slumped. “Yeah, unless you’re tired of hanging around this place.” He glanced at the in-store café. “Or, you know, unless you’re busy.”

  “No, not at all. Now is good.” Articulating her thoughts verbally wasn’t her strong suit. She’d stick to writing, which she could edit.

  His mouth widened into a grin. “Good.”

  Todd insisted on paying for hers too, though she splurged on the Chai Latte Grande.

  They talked about their aspirations as the steam evaporated from their cups. Krista confessed her literary insecurities while admiring the black flecks within his grey irises; eyes that invited close inspection. His lips likewise taunted her, whether involuntarily or not. She couldn’t tell if he intended to tease, or if he was just being nice. She hoped the former. Nice guys tended to bore her.

  Todd set his gaze on her. “Follow the age-old creed–write what you know.”

  Krista took the advice to heart, literally: what she’d known for the past two years was Ethan. She’d let him infiltrate her life, her apartment, her thoughts, herself. Thinking his invasion was laying the groundwork for a future, she’d dated him exclusively, rearranged her life to accommodate his likes and dislikes until she could no longer remember her own.

  She wrote to rediscover herself, divine her innermost thoughts and feelings. From their seemingly serendipitous meeting to their breakup, Krista chronicled and dissected their relationship, building to the crescendo of their eventual fall.

  She copied the first five pages for the critique group the following month. The chick lit writer said: “Your dialogue’s too stiff; make it sound more realistic.” “Make your prose more lyrical, but get rid of the adjectives and adverbs,” offered the poet. The mystery writer advised: “Foreshadow your events to build suspense.”

  Krista nodded, noting each writer’s advice for her revision. She spent the next two weeks pouring over each sentence, mercilessly slashing words, constructing setting and scene, the cadence of her prose flowing lyrically. Like music, the words streamed luxurious legatos punctuated with sharp staccatos as demanded by the scene. They lifted her spirit, excited her neurons in a way that made her hunger for more. The high of writing a well-structured sentence was addictive.

  As a bonus, certain aspects of her former relationship came clear. Ethan lived on the cutting edge of pop culture, always had to have the latest gadget, widget or gizmo. He was exceptionally good with technology. With people, not so much. Had she possessed the foresight to commit his faults to paper earlier, Krista might have been spared much heartache. The exercise allowed her to see, finally, that Ethan was an ass. By setting her emotions into words, she not only defined them, but her writing informed her self-definition.

  When she handed out edited pages at the next meeting, all but Charlene had positive criticism. Krista most looked forward to Todd’s reaction. The lower Ethan sank in her estimation, the higher Todd rose. A good guy with interesting traits, which made her want to find out more. Self-absorbed bad boys were so yesterday.

  After reading her pages, Todd looked at her with a mix of admiration and something like pity–the last thing she wanted from him.

  Over coffee later, Todd leaned his elbows on the table, his hand within a finger’s touch. “You should send your story out.”

  Not what she’d expected him to say. “Out where?”

  “The great beyond.” He spoke like a mystic, then gave a shrug. “Lit mags, ‘zines, wherever you can find an editor’s name and address, if the publication’s a good fit.”

  “I don’t know if it’s ready.” She withdrew her hand. She wasn’t sure if she was ready.

  “It is.” He smiled, the smile of an angel with devilish ideas. “You’ll see.”

  What she saw sitting across from her was a man who encouraged her, wanted her to challenge herself. Someone with whom she connected intellectually and now, maybe they were beginning to connect emotionally.

  When they said good night in the parking lot, she hesitated before reaching for her keys. Todd stood inches away. The fluorescent streetlamp cast a deep blue shadow across his features, caught in his grey eyes like starlight. She let herself drift closer. Headlights swung in an arc and blinded them as an SUV parked opposite Krista’s car. She and Todd shielded their eyes with their arms. The moment was broken. He mumbled good night and walked to his car.

  Krista slumped into her seat with a sigh. The physical connection would have to wait.

  * * * *

  After browsing through the quarterlies and monthlies as they arrived at the store for stocking, Krista targeted five. The speed and gravity of the first rejections weighed surprisingly heavily on her psyche.

  She skipped the next writer’s meeting. Obviously, she was a fraud, only using these gatherings to be near Todd. And obviously, the feeling wasn’t mutual. He could have asked for her number. He could have seen her some other night than Tuesday.

  Todd came into the bookstore the next day. “We missed you last night.”

  She straightened the rack of magazines, avoiding eye contact. She’d thought too much lately about those eyes, how she wanted to drift deeper inside when she looked at them. “I stink. I’m not going to bother writing anymore.”

  “How can you say that? You’re really good. You just need to learn to edit better. Tighter.” He showed her the book he’d picked up, offered to lend it to her.

  She pouted. “But all five magazines rejected my story.”

  He laughed. “So?”

  “So I told you, I stink.” She looked up at him. He was too tall, anyway.

  Todd slumped in that come-on-now way. “Were any personalized? Or did they point out why they rejected you?”

  Her lower lip threatened to protrude. “Two.”

  “Two? That’s excellent.”

  With a frown, Krista tried to determine whether Todd was teasing.

  He went on, “A personalized rejection is an editor’s way of encouraging you to work on your story a little more, and send it back.”

  She copied down the name of the book Todd bought, and splurged on a copy for herself, now that the rent had been paid and Verisimilitude’s cupboard was well stocked.

  * * * *

  Stripping her prose to the bone, Krista fleshed it out, adding more scenes, dialogue, more complexities to both main characters, and finally, more minor ones–friendly and antagonistic. Fictional characters. Her story had become too autobiographical.

  When Todd next stopped by the bookstore, Krista asked him to read her work. His critiques were always insightful, as though he understood better than she what she meant to convey.

  He flipped through the thirty-plus pages. “You’re way beyond a short story into novella nowhere land.”

  She didn’t get it.

  “Print publishers hate novellas–unless you’re a big-name author sure to rake in the sales, they won’t touch ‘em.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. They must be less expensive to produce–they’re less paper. You’d think that would appeal to them.”

  He shrugged. “That’s reality.”

  Undaunted, Krista added layer upon layer of story until it had more tiers than a wedding cake, minus the sugary frosting in favor of a more appetizing buttercream–smooth and thick, drawing you back for more and more.

  Todd stopped by the bookstore at least three times a week now, bringing her critiqued pages, taking home new sect
ions. Krista felt like she’d given him her diary to read, because, in effect, she had.

  Todd pointed out inconsistencies, the somewhat unbelievable passages, and she realized the pitfalls of applying “write what you know” to real situations.

  She blushed when he highlighted a scene where she and Ethan had made love on a parked motorcycle. “But that really happened.”

  “A motorcycle?” His cheeks tinged with red, and he pinched his lower lip, his mouth gaping as he reread the page. Krista realized she’d planted a graphic image in his mind. They laughed, but their goodbyes that night were awkward. Having shared such mental intimacy, perhaps she should kiss him goodnight. But maybe it was best not to cloud their writer-peer relationship. That might be all he wanted from her, and that was okay. Committing her weak former self to the page, she drew strength from its lack of shape. She wanted her character arc to continue into the three-dimensional world, so she too, could emerge fully defined.

  Todd helped Krista structure her story by delving into motivations of the “characters.” It revealed more to Krista than any therapy could have.

  “I was such a fool,” she said to him one night at the café. “I laid down in front of Ethan, practically begged him to walk all over me. I could still be there lying on the floor, if he hadn’t dumped me. I’m really glad he left me. I feel so liberated.”

  “I’m glad, too.” Todd offered a shy smile. He shifted forward in his chair. “Do you think…would you, uh, want to go out some night? Catch a movie or something?”

  Krista slumped backward. “Oh.”

  She studied his fingers, gripping the tabletop like a mad spider, tips turning white from the strain. Disappointment did not come easy for either of them; for Krista, being the cause of his was more uncomfortable than her own fear. The specter of returning to her former self caused her far worse pain. She could never shrink back to the two-dimensional shadow-girl who catered to someone else’s every whim with no consideration of herself.

  She closed her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to witness it. She might be tempted to abandon her resolve if she caught his expectant smile sinking to a frown.