The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) (20 page)

“Oh yes, I have an assistant to do that. But between you and me, she is utterly hopeless.”

“She sends out your letters?”

“Yes. I just couldn’t possibly do them all myself.”

One of the other occupants of the table turned to Doris and asked if he could get a refill of his water glass. She brushed him off coldly. “In a minute,” she grunted as she continued to eavesdrop on our conversation.

It was as dessert was being served that the final straw came for Doris.

“Sometimes we have to send out thirty or forty rejection letters a week. I do have to read the most appalling stuff.”

That was it. Doris snapped as she slammed down the crème brûlée in front of him.

“Why couldn’t you just send one to us? We’re at 475, for goodness’ sake! We were a few months away from our rejection celebration, and the money was going to forgotten children. You could have easily put one in an envelope.”

The whole table became silent at Doris’s outburst.

“My dear,” said Mark Gilbert, obviously used to dealing with stroppy authors, “have I done something to offend you?”

“Yes, you have.” She pulled me out of my chair and took the seat next to him. “You’ve accepted my manuscript and want to make a book out of it!”

He looked confused.

“How terrible of me. Let me offer my sincere regret at wanting to give you some money and get your life’s work out to the masses.”

“Exactly. As if anyone in their right mind wants that.”

He started to laugh. “So why, exactly, did you send it to me if you didn’t want it published?”

“All I wanted was number 476,” she snapped back.

“Sorry? You’ve lost me.”

“All I wanted was a rejection letter for my group, the Rejected Writers’ Book Club of Island County!”

He raised his eyebrows and seemed to be enjoying this lively banter. “The who?”

“My rejection group. We collect rejection letters from publishers and keep them in a scrapbook. We’re at nearly five hundred,” added Doris proudly.

“Well, forgive me for liking it,” he said, pouting and taking a sip of his wine. “What is the name of your masterpiece?”

“
Love in the Forest
.”

“
Love in the Forest
?” He screwed up his eyes as if he were trying to remember. “I don’t think I know of that book.”

“Yes, you do!” said Doris as she pulled out the acceptance letter and slammed it down on the table.

He pulled out a pair of Armani reading glasses and started to look over it. “Oh dear,” he muttered as he finished it.

“Exactly. Isn’t that the most depressing letter you’ve ever read?”

“Well, not normally for a writer, but that’s not why I’m saying it. I’m saying it, my dear, because there has been the most awful mix-up.”

Together they both said, “Andrea!”

He removed his glasses and sighed. “I’m hoping to publish a book called
Love of the Forest
. It’s all about nature and trees. I adore trees.”

Brian added, “He’s a wildlife enthusiast.”

“I don’t understand,” said Doris, now looking confused.

“What was your book about?” inquired Mark Gilbert.

“Jane Austen. She was abducted by aliens, time travels, and then goes back to the eighteenth century with a dishwasher.”

He couldn’t contain himself. He burst out laughing. “Oh, yes, I remember that one,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “If you don’t mind me saying, my dear, I think it needs a lot of work to find an audience.”

“It’s terrible!”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself. I rejected that one a few weeks ago. How did you get this?”

Then, suddenly, he slammed down his glasses. “If you got the acceptance letter, then what did the
Love of the Forest
author get?”

“My rejection letter, I bet,” said Doris triumphantly.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Excuse me. I must make a phone call.” He threw down his napkin and started to leave the table.

Doris grabbed his arm. “I’ve got to get that version of my manuscript back. It’s important. And could you promise me a rejection letter, please?” pleaded Doris, who appeared unable to let go of him.

He patted her hand, as if appeasing a small child. “It will be my greatest pleasure,” he said, unpeeling her fingers one by one.

Doris was like a child with its first gift at Christmas. She was so excited that she knocked back the glass of wine she’d just poured for Brian, slammed it down on the table, and whooped.

Everyone at the table jumped. All at once, Doris’s supervisor was behind her. Doris stood up and started collecting plates with a new skip in her step.

“I don’t know about you,” said Stacy’s client, “but I’m having the most wonderful time. Normally these conventions are pretty dull. But with all this entertainment . . .”

Stacy smiled awkwardly.

“Do introduce me to your guests,” he said, gesturing at us.

Stacy begrudgingly introduced us all.

“My name is Dennis,” he said with the excitement of someone joining a new group. “Tell me more about your rejection club.” He took a sip of his white wine and listened intently as we related the details of the club and how it had started.

Just then, Mark Gilbert returned to his seat. He listened to the tail end of our conversation and commented, “There is a book in there, somewhere.” Then he added, “Though I don’t suggest you get your fearless leader to write it.”

“Absolutely not,” said Ethel, like a little terrier with a bone. The word “book” was a swear word for members of the Rejection Club.

Doris was now back, happy as a cricket and filling up our coffee cups.

Mark had a thought. “You know, if you want rejection letters, you should stay this afternoon for the pitching session. There are going to be literally hundreds of publishers here just waiting to reject your book.”

Doris stopped in her tracks and almost dropped the coffee pot she was holding. She hoisted me out of my seat again; I was up and down like a whore’s drawers.

“Tell me more,” said Doris, as if she were a child engrossed in a bedtime story.

“This afternoon is the pitching part of the conference. Authors come from all over the country to pitch their stories.” I think he actually had a soft spot for Doris. He seemed to enjoy her rough, forthright manner.

“Could I pitch mine and see if they hate it enough to reject it?” She was practically salivating.

“I can’t see why not. It stinks!” He was obviously enjoying this fun turn of the tables when dealing with an author. “Do you have a copy of it with you? You could have them read the first page. That should be enough.”

“I don’t travel anywhere without it. You just never know when you might meet someone who might hate it. What time is the pitching session?”

“In about an hour. You’ll have about five minutes with each to pitch.”

“Right. I’m off to get ready.”

Chapter Nineteen

A FISTFUL OF REJECTIONS

Doris was back five minutes later, out of breath, grasping an instruction sheet.

“We have work to do,” she barked. “We need to find a photocopier to print out four copies of my first chapter and a stack of prewritten rejection letters for them to sign.”

“There’s a print shop just down the street,” said Dennis, getting into the act.

“Janet and Annie, you get on that.”

“Won’t I need a badge to get back in?” asked Annie, putting away her knitting.

“Here, take mine,” said Dennis. “I’m excited to help the cause.”

Doris nodded gratefully. “Ethel and I will start spying out the land—you know, buying tickets and making a list of the publishers we can hit and mark all the ones we’ve already hit.”

She made us sound like the mob.

She clapped her hands. “Come on, let’s get going! We only have an hour!”

So, off we all went, like the Scooby-Doo gang.

We made our way to the print shop. From the counter I was greeted—“greeted” being a loose term; grunted at would be a better description—by a guy with a pin attached by a chain to his lip. The chain then moved up through a nostril until it ended up firmly anchored in his left eyebrow. On his neck, in blue ink, was the word “Whatever.”

He blinked at me as if I were crazy as I dictated the rejection letter for the publishers to sign. Even when I tried to tell him about the club back home and our town party, he just looked at me, bewildered. It wasn’t until I said I was from Washington State that something seemed to register.

“That’s up in Alaska, right?” he said, gazing past me, all-knowing, now seeming to understand why I appeared so weird.

Starting back to the conference with Annie, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement. As crazy as all this was, I felt such a part of it all. Somewhere between being snowed in with Ronald the homeless billionaire and bouncing Ethel through a bathroom window, I’d actually started to bond with this group, and I was having too much fun.

Arriving back from the print shop exactly forty-five minutes later, armed with updated manuscript copies and rejection letters, Annie and I burst through the doors, out of breath. We ran smack into a familiar face, scattering papers like confetti around the foyer. As we stooped to pick them up, Andrea joined us on her knees.

“I’m so sorry!” blurted out Andrea, gathering up papers with the speed of someone who did this sort of thing twelve times a day.

“I might have known it would be you,” sniffed Doris as she sorted the papers into order.

“Oh! It’s you ladies. I’m so glad to see some friendly faces here.” She beamed as if we were old friends. “Nice to see you all again.”

“Well,” said Doris, her feathers appearing to be well and truly ruffled, “you wouldn’t be looking into our friendly faces if it hadn’t been for your mistake!”

Andrea flushed red as she climbed to her feet. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean, I am the author of
Love in the Forest
, the book you mixed up with
Love of the Forest
!”

Then Doris swept her up into a massive bear hug. It was disconcerting for all of us to watch. Maybe Doris was so upset that she was trying to squeeze the life out of her. But when she finally released the bewildered Andrea, Doris had a smile on her face.

“Thank you so much! Not only does your publisher hate it, but we also have a whole room full of publishers that are also going to hate it. We couldn’t be happier.”

She had no idea what Doris was talking about, but she pulled a manuscript from a pile in her arms, saying, “Mr. Gilbert asked me to return this to you. I didn’t expect to do so in person, but here you go.”

Doris yelled and hugged her again. Then, right there in the foyer, she started to rip the manuscript up into a million pieces, saying, “For Momma.” Ripping a full manuscript was no easy feat, and it took a little time. All the while, Andrea giggled as writers all around the room gasped in horror.

“Now,” said Doris as she finished, “battle stations. We need a quick powwow. Ethel and I have come up with a game plan.”

She flagged us all over to a coffee stand, and we gathered around a table.

All about us in the foyer were people wearing blue nametags with the word “writer” on them. Each one was clutching bags and folders, waiting eagerly for the doors to open. I doubted any of them was gunning for a rejection letter, but that’s what we were there pursuing.

Doris handed us all numbered tickets. “This is the plan. Behind those doors are literally dozens of rejections waiting for us. The goal is twenty-five. I want to go back to the club with all the rejection letters we could ever need.”

Everyone at the table became animated. No one had thought about the potential of the conference. This could be a rejection jackpot for us.

“Everyone gets ten pitches. Here are the tickets. We’ll all break off and scatter and try and get as many rejections as we can.”

I was standing with my nose practically touching the door, holding a precious ticket, as if Willy Wonka would be there any moment to collect it, when Stacy appeared again. I hated to admit it, but I’d almost forgotten about her.

“Mom, Dennis and I are going to get a coffee and talk through some of these layouts, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sure I can amuse myself.”

I’d barely finished my sentence when the doors swung open and excited writers with bulging bags raced into the room. Swept up by the crowd, I felt a sense of excitement.

Rushing in, I found my assigned desk. As I caught my breath, I realized that I knew virtually nothing about Doris’s book, the one I was supposed to now pitch to a publishing professional.

A sweet blonde girl with round apple cheeks and a businesslike expression extended her hand to me. Sitting down, I felt like a fraud. The expectancy in her eyes was palpable. I shuffled papers to play for time as she patiently asked, “So, what do you have for me?”

“Oh. It’s a novel.” I put down the first chapter in front of her. “In fact, it’s a historical novel about Jane Austen.”

She smiled and nodded as she started to read it.

“About her time traveling”—I struggled to get the rest of the words out—“being abducted by aliens, and . . . a . . . a . . . dish . . . washer.”

That’s when I lost her. Her eyes literally glazed over, with a “so it’s going to be one of those days” expression.

My cheeks were starting to tingle with the beginnings of a hot flash. I pulled at my tracksuit collar aggressively as the feeling escalated. More than anything, I wanted to rip that darn thing off and sit there in my bra.

I stiffened, trying to gather a businesslike composure. “I realize it’s not everybody’s cup of tea.”

“Yes,” she nodded, rescuing me from my embarrassing monologue. “It definitely isn’t mine. I publish recipe books!”

I laughed, an awkward “get me out of here” kind of a laugh.

“Thank goodness,” I said, surprising both of us. “I have a letter here saying that you’re not interested. Would you mind signing it so I can keep a check of all the publishers I’ve been to?”

She wrinkled up her nose and looked at the letter. “That’s highly irregular. Normally I just say no.”

“Yes . . . but I’m middle-aged and forgetful and . . .”

I was falling down a mountain into a cavern with no way of knowing how to stop myself.

She didn’t look convinced by my explanation, I could tell, but she read the letter and signed it reluctantly. Then it was back to that professional smile.

“Good luck with your book,” she said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. And then she was looking over my shoulder for the next victim—er, writer.

As I headed for the main door, my knees were weak. I felt my heart beating out of my chest, and I was flashing like it was going out of fashion.

I headed to get a glass of water. As I downed it, I marveled at what was in my other hand. I was now an official rejected lady—with my very own letter. I started to get my second wind.

I saw Annie, Ethel, and Doris all smiling and waving their own letters. This was going to be a breeze.

Taking another ticket, I got back in line for another go-around. I was more confident now.

This time I found myself in front of a huge man with a bushy beard and a mass of unkempt, tangled brown curls. As I sat down, he beamed, revealing a huge gap between his teeth.

It gave him a rueful look.

“Hello there. Now, you look like a woman on a mission. Peter is my name. I hate these events, and I hate people pitching at me. So, why don’t you tell me about yourself, and we can have a nice chat. Because, you see, even if you had the best book since
Harry Potter
, if I don’t think we’re going to get along, what’s the point?” Then he let out an enormous belly laugh. “So, what’s your name?”

Before I knew it, I was telling him the whole story, all about the Rejection Club and the letters.

His eyes grew and his head nodded. “Sounds as if you’ve been on quite an adventure. Could be a book in there somewhere.”

We chatted like old friends, and I ended up telling him all about my raccoons. He interrupted me.

“Peppermint oil,” he stated with conviction.

“Sorry?” I asked, not quite following.

“Peppermint oil! Critters hate the smell of it and stay away. You can put it everywhere. And it smells lovely. And they hate it.”

“Great,” I said excitedly.

“We’ve just published a book about organic ways to keep away garden pests, and that peppermint oil works on almost all of them except carpenter ants—then you want cinnamon.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Now, where is that rejection letter you want me to sign? I hate your book, whatever it is.”

He winked at me and flashed that gappy smile again. As I was leaving, he handed me his card.

“If ever you want to write something based on your swashbuckling adventures, I think we would get on just fine! So keep me in mind as your publisher.”

“Thanks. I will.” And with a skip in my step, I exited the room.