I looked back.
Because I’d heard about his list. Everyone had heard about his list. Every time he did an interview and it mentioned some new development in his life, it was usually connected back to the list. The seemingly endless list of Things Gabe Parker Will Do When He’s Successful.
The bookshop, of course, was always mentioned in this context.
There were all the trips he’d taken with his family—to Hawaii, to Bali, to Cape Town, to Paris (where everyone thought Momma Parker might have gotten a formal introduction to Jacinda Lockwood herself).
He’d bought his mom and sister cars. He’d put together a college fund for his niece.
I didn’t doubt that he had done all those things, but I also knew that it was very, very good publicity to talk about them. Personal, but not personal.
I also knew that he was expecting me to ask the same question everyone always asked—what else was on the list? And why wouldn’t he? I’d shown thus far that I was a thoroughly unoriginal interviewer.
This was probably one of the last questions I would be able to ask him.
“Do you want to hear about the trip we’re planning to Italy?” he asked politely. “I’m taking my whole family—my mom, Lauren, Lena, and my brother-in-law, Spencer. He’s never been out of the country before.”
I knew that’s what every other interviewer would ask him.
“How did you know that you’d become successful?” was what I ended up with.
Of course, it came out all wrong.
I flung it at him, like an accusation. Like I didn’t believe he was successful.
And that’s how he took it.
“You think I could do better than playing James Bond?” Gabe asked.
His tone was light, but it seemed like there was a hint of doubt underneath it.
Ridiculous. Gabe Parker did not need his ego stroked.
And it wasn’t really the question I was asking.
I shook my head. “I’m trying to ask how you knew that it was time to start fulfilling the list?”
It still wasn’t right, but at least it made a kind of sense.
Maybe not.
Gabe looked at me, visibly confused.
“I guess what I’m asking is what makes you—Gabe Parker—feel like a success?” I asked, continuing to blabber when his expression didn’t change. “You know, for some people, success might mean honors and accolades. My ex, for example, said he would never feel like a success unless he’d won a National Book Award or some other big-name award like that.”
“The Novelist,” Gabe said.
There was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
I ignored it. “But for me, I mean, I think of success as being able to work whenever and as often as I want. Being able to support myself comfortably just through my writing.”
Gabe leaned back in his chair, the puppy now propped up against his chest, the weirdest and most beautiful version of Madonna and Child that I’d ever seen.
“No one’s ever asked me that,” he said.
“I’m sure they all want to know what’s on the list,” I said.
He nodded. The puppy yawned.
“So?” I asked. “What does success look like to Gabe Parker?”
He looked at me and didn’t say anything for a good long while. If it wasn’t for the unwavering eye contact, I might have thought he’d fallen asleep or something.
But he was over there thinking. Thinking hard.
Then, without looking away, he raised his hand, indicating for the check.
“Want to get out of here?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
THE_JAM_DOT_COM.BLOGSPOT.COM
I’M NOT GOOD. I’M NOT BAD. I’M JUST WRITE.
Someone once said that choosing to be a writer was like choosing to be slapped in the face repeatedly.
Was it Salinger who said it? Hemingway?
No, it was a girl in my first-year fiction workshop who came to class drunk on peach schnapps, tossed her short story at our teacher, threw up in a trash can, and walked out of class.
I think about her often.
Because she was right.
It’s also the reason I’m pretty sure that no one actually chooses to be a writer. It’s a terrible choice.
Also terrible? The title of this post.
I hope Stephen Sondheim will forgive me for the egregious pun. I really hope Stephen Sondheim doesn’t read Blogger.
I tried taking a lesson from him, and attempted writing while lying down.
I fell asleep before I could write a Tony Award–worthy musical. Before I could write anything.
One would think all the brilliant ideas swarming around my head would keep me awake. They didn’t. The only thing that keeps me awake is the fear that I’m not a good writer. That I’m not even a bad writer.
No. I’m worried I’m just a boring one.
And that feels like the worst option of all.
xoChani
Chapter
5
The house was beautiful. And enormous.
“There are eight bedrooms,” the real estate agent said. “Plus a pool house that can easily be renovated into a two-bedroom guesthouse. Three acres with a pool and hot tub. Screening room in the basement, next to the gym. Four bathrooms. Kitchen. Wine cellar.”
I had never been in a house as large as this one. The amount of space was obscene. Eight bedrooms? A gym? A sauna?
As far as I could tell, Gabe was one person. What did he need with all this space?
I glanced over at him, but he was being paid the big acting bucks for a reason—his face was inscrutable. I couldn’t tell if he loved the place or was five seconds away from picking up a chair and throwing it through the glass doors because he wanted nine bedrooms, dammit!
Even though he’d gotten more than a little drunk during lunch, he didn’t seem the type to throw a tantrum over the number of bedrooms available to him.
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” Gabe asked the real estate agent.
“Not at all,” she said, taking the hint and leaving the room.
We were in the kitchen. It was clean and modern, with shiny chrome everything and big windows that opened up onto a yard that was truly gorgeous. Impeccably maintained, it looked like a museum lawn.
“What do you think?” Gabe asked.
“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly.