"Your little prose pieces are very amusing," said the editor of a small local publishing firm. "But are they possibly just a bit of a downer...er...bummer? We don't know if we are to be up or down reading your pieces...er....stories...are they stories or essays or memoir, Ms. Burkowski? They seem to fall into various categories which is not so problematic in and of itself these days. But your whimsicality, if I may add is often overshadowed by a down mood and we, the reader, feel a little confused at times but then again, maybe that is part of their charm."
I stared straight ahead for a moment to gain time; time to digest "little prose pieces" with a bummer subtext. "Really?" I managed to utter unable to comment further.
"I'm not saying it's necessarily a bad thing--depressing sells. You may just match the mood of the times. I only wonder if you are really that angry, Ms. Burkowski?" He was flirting with me, if you can imagine. His eyes got all gluey.
He continued on referring to my stories as charming, finely tuned, thoughtful...on and on he went, making sure to add that short stories do not, as a rule, sell all that well.
No matter, the book is apparently on its way to the printer thanks to encouragement from his wife, the associate editor. "My wife thinks you have an original style. She's been championing your work for some time, Ms. Burkowski."
"I'm very grateful to her," I said though I don't think I was quite as vibrant as I could have been.
"Okay my dear, I think we have all we need from you, ha, ha...for now that is. The photo you selected has been approved and will be on the back cover, black and white. The layout has been completed and you can stop by the art department if you are interested in seeing it but no changes are possible now. We are on a tight deadline and moving quickly as we are producing three books this season and we're a small staff as you can see. Your book as finished product will be in our hands by September. We will promote it in ways we can but much will fall to you though I think I can say you've already started a little buzz going, ha, ha, with your recent notoriety.
I’d been arrested for shoplifting in Macy’s. I didn’t intend to shoplift, it is not something I would plan to do at my age but I was in a fitting room trying on a dress to wear to my book release party, planning ahead, there, and the zipper got stuck, a back zipper hard to reach, I tugged and pulled, broke out into a sweat, started crying in the over-heated store, begged someone to help me, eventually screamed “help” but to no avail. I had an appointment with my divorce lawyer that could not be missed so I threw my coat over the dress and ran out of the store in desperation. Yes, I know, not the smartest move I’ve ever made. I set off an alarm leaving the store, I was ambushed by security and when one of them tried to manhandle me I punched her in the face. So much for graciousness but I was having a breakdown over the zipper, missing my appointment, sweating bullets, and when the burly lady cop grabbed me, I reacted, badly I suppose. A battle ensued, everyone started recording it and I was on YouTube before I’d left the police precinct. I was charged with shoplifting but it could have been much worse, hitting a security guard, assault with a deadly handbag they jocosely referred to it, but she seemed understanding about it all, helped me get out of the damn dress by a designer whose name shall remain anonymous, I don’t need more trouble, and all was forgiven. She had been bored to extinction and this brightened her day, especially when her kids called to tell her she was on the Internet. I was having a bad day myself and my hormones were working against me. And where are the damn salespeople anymore? Obviously they all work undercover. I do too.
"I don't write under my own name, I'm sure you know," I heard myself saying then thinking, he obviously knows. Or does he?
"Yes well, no offense Ms. Burkowski, but Burkowski would make a lousy byline and an even lousier literary tag, if you will. I can see why you have taken a pseudonym. Anything is better than Burkowski, no offense Ms. Burkowski. I don’t think you should take offense, it is a married name after all: You had a beautiful name at one time." (He knows who my father is. Who doesn't?)
"You can call me Vel," I add for good measure.
"Well anyway Ms. Burkowski, Vel, it's the writing that counts. And you are on your way. Good luck to you. Sell books!"
"Yes, right..." But I had stopped listening...I was in serious deliberation: How can I cheer up the stories? Ideas were popping up in my head but they didn't make a lot of sense. I didn't realize I was depressing. I don't wish to be. What should I do? I feel a little touchy all of a sudden. No one wants to be a downer/bummer.
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