The Do-Over(37)
Author: Suzanne Park
“Would you like any help? I have some time before I have to go and I know the last lecture was a lot to take in, I could see it in everyone’s faces.” His doelike, earnest eyes got me every time. Bambi had nothing on this guy.
Ten-years-ago me would have said, “Hell no, I can do this myself,” but I had literally written a book about how women in the workplace were always trying to do everything themselves, taking on too much, and were reluctant to ask for assistance, thinking it would show weakness. I couldn’t fall into that trap, not again. It was against everything I stood for now.
Opening my laptop, I closed out the Word document of my book outline and pulled up the latest homework assignment and my notes from the last lecture. “Would you mind going over De Morgan’s Laws with me? They’re not as easy for me to grasp as I thought they would be.”
Jake scooted his chair to my desk. His knees barely grazed mine and my skin tingled from making contact. “As your dedicated teaching assistant, I’d be honored to help you.” He ran his fingers through the front of his hair, taming his magnificent mane in the process.
Focus on the lesson, Lily. Stop dreaming about running your own fingers through his hair too.
He went over short-circuit evaluations and Boolean expressions, and I focused intently on his words. Jake was a talented teacher, and he taught the material in a slightly different way than the professor had, with examples I could relate to better. But despite his excellent teaching, I found myself distracted when he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves before typing on his keyboard. And holy . . . when he stuck his pen in his mouth while looking for a specific reference in the textbook, or leaned back in his chair to stretch, his shirt pulling up just enough to see—
“Anything else before we wrap up here?” he asked while putting his books and laptop into his backpack. “I’m packing up, but it’s only because I managed to take over your entire table with all of my shit.”
My cheeks lit on fire. “No. Thank you for, um . . . assisting with the teaching.”
Jake chuckled. “Anytime. That’s what I’m here for. My job is literally teaching assistant.”
His departure allowed me to turn my attention back to writing the preface of my long-overdue book. The opening was the only part that didn’t require any research, observations, or insights. I hadn’t written much in weeks, but with the O’Haras’ book out in the world, the pressure to release my next one increased exponentially.
An hour later, I wrote a few sentences, then quickly deleted them, over and over ad nauseam. Two hours passed and I was back to staring at a completely blank page.
This was going nowhere.
And it would continue going nowhere if I didn’t do something about it.
I went into the draft folder of my email and found a note I’d written to my editor the last time I felt stuck, while in the middle of writing my last book. I was minutes away from sending it to Katherine, but thanks to her editor ESP, she called me just before I was at my wit’s end, ready to call it quits. She worked with me to shape my book and I managed to finish the project a month after the deadline. I never sent the email, but I had saved it. Maybe to repurpose it one day. For a day like today.
Katherine,
I owe it to you to let you know how things are progressing. So here’s the truth. I’m in a rut. I honestly think I’ve deluded myself and others into thinking I have something unique or important to say, but as I continue writing, I’m feeling like maybe I don’t. Or maybe someone else can do a much better job, and they should write this book instead of me.
Maybe I just don’t know how to write at all, or I’m not expressing myself well in book form. How can I be a writer if I can’t write any good words?
I’ve been able to draft only the first half of the book but it feels like a disjointed, blathering mess, kind of like this email. I’m too embarrassed to share anything with you because it’s not in good shape. I’m sorry I wasted your time.
Sincerely,
Lily
The difference between then and now was that at the time I’d written that email, half of the book had been drafted. For this new one, I had nothing. It was understandable, of course, since I’d focused so much of my time on my college classes. But now as we were approaching midterm season, the time trade-off was evident. Was it time to give my editor an update, a full disclosure of what I’d been up to the past weeks? Would she understand why the book proposal I’d turned in two years ago wasn’t exactly clicking with me now? Or would she give up on me and ask me for the advance back?
How could someone like me write a book about career success? Maybe I needed to write about something I was an actual expert in.
Failure.
That idea made me laugh but it wasn’t the worst I’d ever had. Maybe I could work with that. I opened a new file and jotted down a few new ideas, feeling my passion for writing return.
Perhaps I could do this after all, but it might need to be an entirely different book.
Chapter Seventeen
Twelve and a Half Years Ago
The Asian Student Association chartered a bus to Manhattan so members could visit NYU’s and Columbia’s campuses, giving us an opportunity to watch the undergraduate Korean Student Association culture shows for each school. The events took place on Friday night and Saturday night on the same February weekend. It was my sophomore year, and my very first time visiting the city.
Of course, as soon as the bus rolled into Midtown Manhattan, we went straight to Koreatown to eat Korean barbecue on Thirty-Second Street.
“What does A-Y-C-E mean?” I asked, crossing and rubbing my upper arms with my mittened hands.
Some of the Korean guys from my school laughed. The club president joked, “All you can eat. Are you sure you’re even Korean?”
My face grew hot even though the temperature outside was freezing. Presumably this Asian organization was for students who wanted to connect with Asian culture, and for meeting other people who shared a common heritage, which was important to me. But oddly, the more I hung out with other Koreans, the less Asian I felt. To my friends growing up, I was very Korean. But to the other members of ASA, I was super Americanized. I’d been to Seoul only once. I wasn’t fluent in Korean by any means and Carlthorpe didn’t offer it as a language option. Mia was fluent, but she and I rarely spoke it. And maybe the worst tragedy of all, I hadn’t actually been to any K-BBQ places in a big city, hence my ignorance of AYCE.