ATTENDEES WHO WANTED to do so could sign up for a one-on-one consultation with a publishing professional. Ranjana had signed up for this, not thinking about how daunting it would be; the head shot–like pictures of the agents and editors had looked benign on the Web site. This morning, however, after the tension of the past couple days and after having seen many of these people in the flesh, Ranjana was terrified of what this meeting would be like. She had been inspired by Pushpa Sondhi’s talk, but now she panicked again, worried that her writing was as insignificant as ever—flimsy, aimless, uninspired. And since the consultation was over a sample and not a full manuscript, the writing would seem even more insignificant.
Her meeting was with Curtis Strong, an editor at Crumley. Curtis’s photo on the Web site showed an intense young man with a sea foam scarf swooped around his neck and shoulders. He edited “literary fiction and narrative nonfiction,” a phrase that almost made Ranjana’s teeth fall out. One of Curtis’s books, about a schoolteacher who had taught a school of Ghanaian children how to salsa dance, had spent months at the top of the New York Times bestseller list. Another was a memoir by a cop-turned-chef whose pen name was Miranda Rice.
The consultations were being held in another nondescript multipurpose room: a dozen small, round tables were spread at even intervals on its hibiscus-printed carpet. Each table had a tablecloth with a sunflower pattern, giving the entire experience the aura of being trapped in Alice’s Wonderland. On each table was a white placard bearing the name of the agent or editor, and there was (thankfully) a volunteer who directed people to their tables.
As Ranjana approached Curtis Strong’s table, she was surprised to find that she felt calm. Her lack of confidence in her writing made her feel practically invincible.
Curtis Strong was wearing a gray jacket and thick black glasses. Ranjana knew right away that he was hungover. The gray jacket seemed like an attempt to hide this. Ranjana’s confidence deflated. He couldn’t be receptive to her work if he was hungover.
The first thing that he said was “How do you say your name?”
Ranjana sat down, letting her purse fall unceremoniously to the carpet. “RUN-juh-nuh.”
“Ha-ha, OK. Well, we’ve got twenty minutes, so I want to make sure we spend it the way you want.”
“OK,” Ranjana said, straightening herself and getting ready to deliver her prepared sound bite. “The most important thing to me was—”
“Tell me what you want the story to be doing.”
“Pardon?”
“What do you want the story to be doing?”
Ranjana had never heard this type of sentence before.
“‘To be doing’?”
Curtis laughed and looked askance, as if his eyes couldn’t be bothered to watch such stupidity.
“What is your book about?”
Ranjana had the distinct feeling that this man hadn’t read her work at all. After everything that she had endured with Cheryl last night, she didn’t have the patience for this.
“Did you read my sample?”
Curtis took his hands off the table and crossed them over his chest. Ranjana was aware of the pair seated near them, a woman and a man who were discussing a crime thriller.
“There’s no need to be rude. I read your sample. I was just trying to get a sense of your book. What happens after she notices the ring on the vampire’s finger?”
Damn. He had read it.
“Um…”
“I like you,” Curtis said, reaching for his glass of water and taking a big sip. “I have to say that I’m very charmed by your whole shtick.”
What to say to this? What did this–
“How are you on social media?” he asked.
Possible meanings of this:
(A) How did you come to be on social media?
(B) What is your demeanor on social media (which you use rarely)?
Ranjana couldn’t answer either of these questions easily, so she remained silent.
“I like your writing. I mean, this isn’t the type of thing that I normally see,” Curtis said.
“I know. I wasn’t sure why they paired us,” Ranjana said. Curtis’s face fell at this comment. “But I’m glad that they did!”
This was a disaster.
It continued to be. Curtis segued into a discussion of his experience with Indian people, which involved a childhood friend named Priya, who had gone on to be a professional model, and an editor in his office who had just given birth to twins. (“Her husband’s white, so they’re obviously adorable.”) How could the world put people like this in positions of creative power while Ranjana sat at their beckoning? This man had published New York Times bestsellers and had once been at a book party with George Plimpton and Francine Prose (thanks, Google Images), yet Ranjana hoped that Prashant had never read a word that Curtis Strong had edited.
Twenty minutes passed. Ranjana’s work was virtually untouched. Curtis was gray with hangover.
“You know the vampire thing is over, right?” Curtis asked.
“Pardon?”
“I mean, it’s kind of over. Twilight was years ago at this point. You might want to rethink that angle.”
“Um, thank you,” Ranjana said, thinking of the long ride home.
“Good luck,” Curtis said, getting up and shuffling past. He approached the volunteer and said, “Quickest way to Union Station?” Then he was gone.
His printout of Ranjana’s pages was still on the table. It was unmarked.
“Excuse me,” said a woman nearby. It was the “professional” half of the duo that had been seated next to them. Ranjana pushed away the sleeve of her salwar kameez and looked at her watch.
“It’s nine thirty-four,” she said.
The woman sloughed this off with a laugh. She was African-American and very pretty, with red lipstick so bright that it looked orange. “No—sorry. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Don’t pay attention to Curtis. He’s an asshole. Did I hear that you write paranormal fiction?”
*
“You made brownies to bring for a weekend away?” Ranjana asked. She was holding a smushed brown wedge that Cheryl had pulled out of a Ziploc bag. Harit and Teddy were nowhere to be found; there was no answer when Ranjana called their rooms, and Teddy’s cell phone was apparently dead. In the meantime, she and Cheryl were sitting at the round wooden table between their maroon-curtained windows.
“This is my special recipe,” Cheryl said. “I make it for special occasions.”
“You didn’t know today was going to be a special occasion.”
“Some part of me did. I have a sixth sense, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
The unmarked pages that Curtis had left on the table were now in the hands of Christina Sherman, the agent who had been sitting right next to Ranjana. Ranjana already had Christina’s card in her pocket and a text on her phone: Love love love these pages!! Drop me a line this week. xx Christina