Hidden Inspiration

“I’m sorry, your book just isn’t a good fit for us.”

I hang up the phone, the publisher’s words ringing in my ears, echoing with the chorus of the eight publishers before him.

My eyes fall to my hand on the kitchen counter, follow the pattern of granite to the pile of unopened bills by the sink, peeking out from behind the wilting plant I got from my mom. “Congratulations on Finishing Your Book!” shouts the card poking from the soil, mocking me as the bills stare me down menacingly.

Soft fur and a low rumble wrap around my left leg, a fluffy tail coiling up it. I reach down to pet my cat, Bodhi, scratching her in her favorite spot on her neck. She leans into it. “Not a good fit,” I say to her, the disappointment rising like bile in my throat.

I’m in danger of crying, and I don’t want to - not again - so I reach for the phone and call my best friend. Hot tears threaten as I listen to it ring. I choke them back as the distance closes between our connection. “Hey! I was just thinking about you,” Emma says in a cheerful tone, tinged with the tired edge only a mother of two toddlers could have.

I take a breath and start, “From your experience in publishing, how many rejections is standard before a writer should start asking if it’s truly ‘not a good fit’ or if they just suck at writing and wrote a bad novel nobody wants to publish?”

I was going for humor, but my delivery’s off, a weight to my words that rings true. I am starting to question myself, wondering if I fired my freelancing clients and took the leap into “full time novelist” too soon. I suppose that’s the real reason I called, and she knows it. “Uh oh, another bad call, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I said no - no more popsicles. Go play outside. Mommy’s on the phone - sorry. What happened?”

“He said I wasn’t a good fit for them. I don’t think I can take another rejection. That’s the ninth one already.”

“Twelve publishers rejected J.K. Rowling before they accepted the first Harry Potter book,” she says, now speaking louder over the static of running water. “And look at her now. A ton of books, all those films. Hang in there.” I hear the clanking of dishes.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say, my mood lightening a little. She always had a way of unclenching my soul. I’m glad I called.

“You know, when I was working with Neil Gaiman on The Sandman,” Emma says, “He talked about how he always likes to be working on the next thing. To not let any time lapse between one project’s end and another’s beginning. Maybe you should try starting on your next novel while you wait for the right publisher to come along.”

“Write a new novel? Why would I do that, when I’m not even sure this one is any good?” I say, put off by the very thought.

“You know -” she’s cut off by the sound of a child crying. “Oh, the little one is up from his nap. You going to be okay?”

“Go do the mom thing,” I say, relieved to not be talking about this anymore. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Alright, feel better,” she says.

“Thanks.”

I lower the phone, shaking my head. Write the next novel, who is she kidding? I had all my hopes riding on this one, and it’s turning out to be my biggest disappointment. How am I supposed to even come up with a new one, feeling like this? I’d rather play a computer game.

I walk down the narrow hall, and make a left into the spare bedroom I’ve remade into my writing room. I stop in the doorway, taking in the sight of what I’ve let it become, the mess a mirror of my mind these last several months.

The blinds of the wide window are askew, the desk in front of it piled high with papers, opened bills I don’t want to deal with and the hundredth letter from Geico begging me to save 15% or more on car insurance.

Empty cans of soda make a tower on the book shelf, obscuring my Harry Potter collection. Easy Mac containers litter the desk and, I’m ashamed to say, the ground, and the walls are lined by heaps of boxes from when I moved in a year ago.

“The Feng Shui of this room is all wrong,” I say, echoing the words of my grandma. That’s what she would say if she could see this mess. She would also tell me that no ideas will come to me in a space like this, but I ignore the ghost of my grandmother’s words and search for my laptop.

I find it, dead, underneath an electric bill that says Past Due in red, no charger in sight. I lift the pile, my hand searching beneath, seeking the white plastic plug and rubber coil, finding nothing. I sigh and lean against the desk, resigning myself to having to clean this place before I can play my game.

If I’m going to clean, I might as well unpack some of these boxes, I think to myself as my eyes catch on a box with a little black book sticking out of it, its lid slightly crooked.

The box is in the Wealth Qua of the room, when it comes to Feng Shui, so I figure that’s a good place to clear out first, work my way out from there. Let the energy flow into that space, as Grandma would say. I lift the box from its stack and bring it to the center of the room, kicking empty Easy Mac cups out of the way. I’ll deal with those later.

Kneeling on my knees, I push the loose lid off the top and let out a small gasp as I realize that this box isn’t from my move at all - this is the box of my grandmother’s things, the things I kept of hers after she died of pancreatic cancer in October.

Resting on top is a red and gold fabric box of Chinese design. I reach for it gingerly, as if reaching for a ghost. I open it, revealing vintage, carved wood combs of Geishas with painted faces. I used to play with these when I was a little girl. Give them stories, lives to live. I wonder what stories they have to tell me now.

I lift the first comb from the box, running my fingers along the teeth. She was always my favorite. Something about the tilt of her head, the slight smile that suggests she knows something the others do not, the colors and details of her dress. I’d choose her as the protagonist, if I were to write a story about her.

I sit up straight, an impulse coursing through me like electricity. I pull the rest of the Geishas from their nesting places and stand them up against the box, arranging them as if they were on a book cover. I gaze upon their faces, searching for something.

One of the Geishas, dressed in mint and lilac, has a secret to tell. It’s clear from the look in her eyes. Another turns away, her back to the others. She’s definitely the antagonist of the four. The last looks to be a matriarch character, with a slightly older face in a beautiful red and gold hood lined with white fur, and a contrasting mint green dress.

Bodhi strolls in, eager to be a part of it all. She plops down on her side, reaches out a paw and bats at the Geisha with her back turned. “You’re right, we don’t like her,” I laugh, rubbing her exposed belly. It’s a trap, of course, and she grabs my hand, claws extended, kicks a little. I pull my hand away and boop her nose. “This one’s the antagonist, for sure,” I tell her. I pick up the Geisha comb and set her upright against the box.

Suddenly, the story comes together, materializing in my mind: four Geishas, brought together by circumstance, a deadly secret binding their fate…

My hand reaches automatically for the little black book inside the box. It’s a gift Grandma gave me, near the end. A small journal. She said it was to get me started on my writing journey. She was so excited about it, I didn’t have the heart to tell her I do all my serious writing on my MacBook these days. I open the Moleskine and a folded piece of paper falls out into my lap.

I unfold it, slowly. It’s a letter written in her hand. I read her message from the beyond.

Hey Babe,

Don’t spend your life building other people’s dreams and forget about your own. Be brave enough to follow your creative impulses, wherever they may lead - they will be your guide. You’re going to be a famous writer someday. Here’s a little something to get you started on that journey.

Tears spread on the page before I’m even aware they’re falling, and I wipe them away hastily. My grief is always like this. At first it was constant, crushing, then it ebbed, coming and going like the tides. Now, it comes on unexpectedly and I don’t like to face it when it does. My heart aches and my throat clenches as I try to stop the tears from coming. I don’t want to do this right now. I force myself to keep reading.

I opened a bank account and added you as the beneficiary. I deposited $20,000 so you can quit your jobs and use it for your expenses while you write your greatest stories yet. I included the account number and bank information below.

I love you forever,

Grandma

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding in, and wipe the residual tears from my eyes. I read the last paragraph over, sure I am hallucinating, finally having a nervous breakdown. But no, it is here, clear as anything, I have inherited $20,000. I still can hardly believe my eyes.

I wasn’t even aware she had that kind of money. She lived so simply. I suppose that’s why she has it. Why it’s there for me now. I make a mental note not to spend lavishly and to use this money as she wished, to honor her memory and this incredible gift she has given me.

I lift my head, look over at the Wealth Qua of the room, now vacant, the energy flowing, and laugh, feeling lighter than I have since before she died. I feel like she’s with me now, saying, “See how a little Feng Shui makes the bad energy go away?”

My phone buzzes on the ground next to me, its face lighting up with a number I don’t recognize. I answer. “Hello?” I croak. I clear my throat. “Hello?” I say again, this time audibly.

“Hi, may I speak to Harper Lewis?”

I straighten my back, still on the floor, now slightly anxious. “This is she,” I say in my best professional voice.

“Hi, Harper, this is Sophia Miller from Amos & Hayes Publishing, how are you?”

“Very well, and yourself?” I say, attempting to curb the edge of anxiety in my voice. I want to feel in control, and brace myself for disappointment.

“Good, good, thanks for asking. Well, listen, I’ll cut to the chase. We read your manuscript and we want to publish your book. Can you come into the office for a meeting?”

A slow smile spreads across my lips. There might be something to this Feng Shui stuff, after all.