That’s why I’m so determined to finish my novel this time. That’s why it’s going to be my best work. That’s why I’m so damn happy to have met Frank, the perfect candidate to base my protagonist on. If I can’t finish this, it’s game over. I’m finally feeling ready. Inspired. Ambitious. Focused.
Before we get to that, let me explain the dark months that followed the breakup.
The night of the breakup, after my mom brought me home, I lay in bed burning up, experiencing fever dreams and bizarre hallucinations: phantom visions of Lola next to me, caressing my hair, then evaporating.
My mother would periodically check in to make sure my fever wasn’t what she would call “ER worthy.” Two days later, the fever had passed, but my depression hadn’t.
You know in the movies how they do that cool time lapse where hours on a clock spin by like seconds? Yeah, well, I want you to imagine that . . . but imagine each day feels like a second.
I was disgusting. I barely left my bed. The lights never came on. I would hardly move, maybe to go to the bathroom, but even that felt like an impossible task. I showered once a week if my mother managed to make me. I would sleep for sixteen hours a day. Then I wouldn’t sleep for three days. I couldn’t tell you if it was day or night, let alone the day of the week. I felt hopeless. Not even sad. Just nothing. I couldn’t even cry. The thought of writing was an unimaginable feat. It was a depression so low and flat that I couldn’t even envision suicide as a solution.
I felt like a fucking cartoon character because every time I saw myself I was wearing the same goddamn outfit: boxers, a white undershirt, and a burgundy robe. Plates of half-eaten sandwiches lingered on the floor, encircling my bed, piling high, and finally being taken away in the blink of an eye, just like those time-lapse montages in movies.
Along with the sandwiches, the mail piled up. I had more mail than I had ever cared to receive. Every once in a while, my mother would barge in to express that I had received another letter from a publishing company. She would tell me to open it, but quite honestly, I didn’t care. I knew what it was and I could hear Lola taunting me in my head—another rejection letter.
She was so sweet when we were together. Was I truly the failure she depicted me as?
The clock spun, the montage continued. Winter turned into spring. Then one day, it came to a halt.
“Flynn!” my mom yelled. “Today is the day you are going to shower, shave, put on some clothes, read this letter, and rejoin society or, I’m sorry to say, I’ll have to throw out your things.”
My mother had never spoken to me this way.
I couldn’t tell if she despised me or loved me so much she felt compelled to make such grave threats—threats she was prepared to act on, given her tone. I don’t know why I got up, but I did. I went into the bathroom and shut the door. I pissed and turned on the sink and shower. I opened the door and emerged a fresh, clean-shaven man.
I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize what I saw—a handsome, functioning member of society. But I wiped my eyes because I felt quite the opposite.
“Eggs are getting cold!” Mom yelled.
I clunked down the stairs and took a seat in the kitchen, my eyes squinting from the bright sun shining through the window.
“There’s my boy!” my mom said. “I can see your face, Flynn. I love that face.” She had a big smile. I grabbed one of the many identical letters from our little mail area next to the rotary phone by my mom’s recliner.
Another rejection letter. “We regret to inform you . . .” I opened another letter. “We have considered your manuscript, and while there are elements of promise, it is not right for us at this time . . .” I felt the weight of my body returning to its depressed state. I slid my hand across the table, grabbing one last envelope.
On the front, it had my name.
Flynnagin E. Montgomery
465 Cedar Ridge Lane
Baker City, OR 34652
I opened the letter.
TO: Flynnagin E. Montgomery
FROM: Ed Nortan III
Dear Mr. Montgomery,
As you have not supplied a contact number or email, I have been forced to send this the old-fashioned way, via postal service. This is one of several attempts at communication, and I remain hopeful it will be received.
The concept for a realist novel set in a suburban supermarket, and its execution in your initial sample pages, are enough to validate what I first saw in you: great promise. The plotlessness of the work is part of its allure. Anyone can write about mythical worlds, murders, heists, and far-fetched romances. But this—this mimics how life is lived, in all its boring and profound uneventfulness. I think it will resonate with readers in a special way. The timing is perfect as well—the market has undergone a transformation, and contemporary, edgy, authentic young voices are in high demand. Your work, I believe, has the potential to bring in a large, fresh audience.
I believe you are capable of actualizing this story. I have faith in your ability to deliver a dynamic, fully satisfying manuscript. Along those lines, I believe the time has come to meet you in person. Let’s talk. I will have my assistant contact you to set up a time for you to come to New York. I look forward to discussing the future of this book and your writing career.
Best,
Ed Nortan III
President, Darjeeling Publishing
I raised my eyes from the letter and stared at the wall in shock. I didn’t even remember submitting to this company. Quite honestly, I had never heard of this company.
I guess I had nothing to lose.
I told my mother about it and she cried with joy. I wanted to turn this opportunity into a life-changing moment.
I called the company to set up the meeting. Days later I was at the airport on my way to New York City. I had never been more than a few hundred miles from home, except the time my mom won a trip to Hawaii, but I was so young I don’t really remember much of it.
This was the craziest experience of my life. It’s insane how someone’s fortune can reverse overnight. I’m glad I persevered and kept going through the months of despair.
I gave my mom a hug and kiss when she dropped me off at Departures. I was flying JetBlue. Going through security was intense—I had to take off my shoes, belt, and jacket. I had to damn near strip down. There was a woman in front of me with a little rat dog in her purse with a bejeweled collar and name tag that said Coco. She was what you would imagine Paris Hilton would look like in her late forties. Pseudorich, fake Louis Vuitton bag, pink velour pants, spray tan, leather skin, plastic nails, and makeup that was caked on. She was acting all crazy, causing a scene. Yelling, saying how she was about to miss her flight and had to get to her plane. You know the type; she was the kind of person who felt she was more important than everyone else.
As I waited to board I sat down and pulled out my Moleskine. I started writing about the woman, just in case I wanted to base a future character off her. I must have been writing intensely because the guy next to me spoke up.
“Damn, dude, you’re really into whatever the hell you’re writing, huh?”
“Oh, ha, yeah, man. I feel like when I have an idea I’ve got to write as quickly as possible because multiple ideas tend to come—”
“At once and you don’t want to forget that idea or miss out on the others coming at you!” he said.