I find Cameron sitting on the top step, so I join her placing the baby monitor beside me. “Have enough advice from the married women?” I tease.
“They mean well,” she states. “I wanted a few minutes to chat with you.”
I’m caught off guard. I have no idea why she wants to chat with me.
“First, you must promise not to be mad.” Cameron looks sternly my way. When I nod, she continues. “Mom shared two of your stories with me, you are a gifted writer.”
“Wait, what?” Her mom? Alma? She did what with my stories? In late-September I began going through my old notebooks full of young-adult stories. The urge to write again was strong, so I purchased ten new notebooks, and shared a couple of my previously written stories with Alma.
“You promised not to be mad.” Cameron sternly reminds me. “She told me you shared them with her. She loved them and shared them with me. You are a gifted writer. Mom says you haven’t sent inquiries to agents or to publishing houses, is that true?”
“Umm,” my mind still tries to process Alma’s betrayal and Cameron’s words. I shared four of the stories I’ve written over the past three years for fun. I mentioned it during one of the days we read while it rained outside. She insisted I let her read them. I never thought she would share them with someone. I sure didn’t think she would share them with her daughter, an editor at a publishing house in Dallas.
“They are in my suitcase. I made a few, and I mean a very few edits and suggestions for you.” When I don’t react, she continues. “I think you should let me pitch them at next month’s new authors’ meeting. I’m confident one of our three publishing houses will pick them up.” She turns my chin to face her. “You’re mad. You can’t be mad—you promised. You really have no idea how good they are, do you? Madison, readers need these books. The young-adult market needs more authors like you.”
She places her hands on each of my shoulders, arms fully extended as she stares at my face. “I need you to hear me. I need your permission to pitch your books. I’d love to see your other stories, too. They are much too good to hide in a drawer or in a laptop file. Your students need these books. Let me help you, please.”
“You really think kids would enjoy reading them?” I can’t wrap my mind around her positive words on my writing. I transformed my thoughts and fears into stories as a form of therapy for me. I never intended to share them.
“Madison, yes your writing is that good.”
“I write as a hobby at night when I can’t sleep. I’ve always kept journals and even written some poems. I can’t believe you are sitting here telling me you, an editor, want to pitch my stories. I mean, I’ve daydreamed about it a couple of times, but it was never something I planned to pursue.”
“I’m not promising anything. I’ve worked with hundreds of writers, I’ve edited many manuscripts, and I believe your work is among the best I’ve seen. I am confident you’ll find others interested in them. I work for the parent company—we have two smaller publishing houses that we also own. If you permit me to pitch these first two books, I feel one of the three houses will pick them up.” Cameron’s smile is infectious.
I am excited that she enjoyed them. I even feel hopeful that someone else might like them well enough to publish them. My stories contain characters based on little parts of me. In my seven stories I’ve written about the topics of an alcoholic parent, of losing a parent, of a smart girl attempting to not appear so smart around her peers, and of a nerd that wants to be in the popular crowd. All of my stories are based in one middle school with three different groups of friends. Writing about my life is therapeutic for me—maybe my books can help others in similar situations. Maybe Cameron really can help me. A hundred questions form in my mind.
“Let’s take some time tonight after Libby goes to bed to go over the two I have. If you choose, you can rewrite and share an electronic file with me. I will print copies of the manuscript to share at the meeting. Then we will just wait and see if we hear anything the following week or two. When they pick up a new author it happens quickly. They call, set up meetings, explain the timeline, and the process. You will know before Christmas either way.”
I agree to work with her later tonight. While Cameron returns down to the family, I remain on the step. I love Alma. I consider myself blessed to spend each day with her. However, at this moment, I’m still hurt. The fact that she didn’t ask when she knew how private I kept them hurts. I know if she asked me, I most likely would have given my permission to share my stories with Cameron. I know it’s the same outcome as if she did ask first. Cameron’s reaction and confidence in my stories would still have surprised me. I know Alma only wants the best for me—I guess I can’t fault her for that.
I allow myself a few moments to process the fear, the excitement, and to dream. I imagine two of my books get published. I envision local school and city libraries carrying my book. A bud of excitement blooms. I like the idea of being published. With Cameron’s help it just might happen. My thoughts fade as my phone vibrates.
Hamilton: how’s the crowded house?
Me: busy
Hamilton: wish u were here
Me: tell your mom & sis I say hi
Hamilton: we consider u family, too
Hamilton: I should have insisted u join us
Me: already made plans with Alma when u asked
Me: your family likes u all to themselves
Me: they don’t see u enough
Hamilton: I don’t see u enough
Me: when do u head back to Chicago?
Hamilton: Friday evening
Hamilton: 2 more weeks then calendar opens up
Me: maybe then we can get together
Me: I’m done teaching
Me: I just observe until Dec. 5th then graduation
Hamilton: I’ll call Monday
Hamilton: & we’ll get something on calendar
Me: I’ll be very honored
Me: Hamilton Armstrong’s calendar (heart emoji)
Hamilton: Stop
Hamilton: u r more important than events on calendar
Hamilton: I hope you know that (heart emoji)
Hamilton: I have to do these appearances
Hamilton: I want to see you
Hamilton: big difference
Me: (Heart emoji)
Me: Alma needs my help. we’ll be eating soon
Me: enjoy your family
Hamilton: (Heart emoji)
Me: (2 Heart emojis)
With the busy house, the big meal, and Cameron’s bomb about my books; I don’t need to worry about an approaching get together with Hamilton to tell him he has a daughter. His proclamation of missing me and being more important than events on his calendar further confuses me. I have enough on my plate today and tomorrow. I decide to wait for the weekend to worry about Hamilton, his feelings, my feelings, and a December you’re-a-daddy meeting.