In Your Eyes
Sometimes the easiest way to see clearly is to borrow someone else’s eyes.
I’m sitting across the breakfast table from my pregnant friend. She’s the kind of pregnant that hurts to look at, because how can you cram any more human into an already fully formed human? She’s tired of talking about babies and pregnancy, so she asks, “How’s the writing going.”
I’m tired of talking about “the writing,” because at the moment it’s going absolutely nowhere. I swallow a forkful of biscuits and gravy, and decide if she can suffer through growing an entirely new life form, I can suffer through a conversation about my writing.
“It’s not going.” I take a gulp of orange juice. “For the past few months everything feels like failure.”
“What are you talking about? You quit your job to do what you love. Do you know how many people dream about that?”
Everyone I know dreams of doing that.
I push the eggs around on my plate and smile at my friend. “I needed to hear that. Thanks.”
We pay our tab and head over to the radio station where I’m being interviewed at noon about my work as a writer.
I’m out with my cousin and her husband. She’s my same-age cousin, the one who made me watch Annie everyday for multiple summers, and engrained a loathing of musicals — Annie in particular — into my soul. The three of us have snuck away from our extended family over the Christmas holiday and are enjoying cocktails, lemon cake, and French fries at an overly trendy restaurant where the bartender gets confused about what a Sazerac is.
“How’s the book going?” he asks.
I slowly chew another bite of cake to buy time before trying to explain what nowhere looks like. “I’m working on a new one, but the one you’re thinking of is with agents right now.”
“What’s that mean? It’s good. Right?” she says.
I shrug. “It means eleven people have asked to read my whole book, and if one or more of them like it enough to take me on as a client, they help me sell it. I guess it’s good. One agent offered to negotiate a contract for me with a small press. They asked me to do a three-book series, with that book as the first. But I turned them down because the contract wasn’t right for me.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“What?” Maybe I should have clarified the part where I didn’t sign the contract, the fact I still haven’t gotten paid for that book because I haven’t sold it and there’s no real timeline for when I’ll release it to the public.
“That’s great! A contract. You’re really doing it. You took a chance to do something you love, and you’re succeeding at it. Come on, let’s have a cheers.”
I lift my glass and look, with surprise, at the admiration and excitement on their faces.
I’m at my writer friend’s sixtieth birthday party. The theme is peace and love and the sixties. I wear a Kelly green and navy paisley dress, a scarf’s tied in my hair, and I’m hesitant to leave the food table. Everything is served in tiny sizes. My plate has been filled with all the kinds of bites multiple times because if my mouth is stuffed with chicken I won’t have to talk to a stranger. Strangers are scary, and at parties there are lots of them. A lady with feathers dangling from her hair and rose colored round glasses advances toward me with a smile on her face. I have no idea who she is. I shove a tiny quiche into my mouth.
“I recognize you. You’re one of the writers.”
I smile and nod, still chewing.
“My husband and I went to one of your readings.”
“Oh,” I say. Followed by shoving a miniscule tartlet into my mouth. I haven’t done a reading in over a year.
“We had the best time. You and your friends are so talented. When are you doing your next one?”
“Ummmm, I’ll have to talk to the birthday girl about that.” I shove a tiny apple pie into my mouth.
“I hope it’s soon!”
A small sigh of relief leaves my mouth when she’s called across the room by a guy in orange plaid bell-bottoms.
I’m at lunch with one of my pseudo-big-brothers. He’s greeted me with a sealed Christmas card and told me to open it when I get home. Big brothers are bossy like that. I order the normal BLT. He orders the triple BLT.
“It’s amazing how big your mouth is,” I say.
He smashes his sandwich to an almost accommodating size. “It’s all about the smoosh.”
I tell him I’m thinking about applying for a mindless retail job as he shoves the sandwich into his mouth and proceeds to get mayo all over his face. I don’t tell him the reason for a second job is because I want to buy new contacts and don’t have eye-insurance and didn’t budget money for the doctor and a year’s worth of contacts. Big brothers worry.
We finish our sandwiches, make plans to see the new Star Wars, Rogue One, next week and head our separate ways.
I get home, open my card and start crying. I grab my phone and text him: I opened my card and money just kept falling out of it and that was crazy times a million because I wanted to buy more contacts and was just worrying about the money for them this morning. Thank you. Not just for my Christmas present but also for being a good big brother and taking care of me.
He texts back: Hey I’m not good at saying these things, but I’m proud of you for pursuing your dreams.
Jessica Conoley is an author, developmental editor, speaker, and Authorpreneurship coach. She writes YA and fantasy novels, creative non-fiction, flash fiction, and essays. In 2012 she became the Managing Editor of Kansas City Voices arts and literary magazine and spent the next five years publishing emerging artists and writers. She launched her Authorpreneurship coaching program in 2018 and utilizes her editorial and business skills to prepare authors for the next step of their publishing careers. Get Jessica’s monthly Authorpreneurship tips delivered to your inbox at: https://jessicaconoley.com
