The Writing Retreat(9)

“Yeah. So I know that might be a little weird for you.”

“?‘A little weird’?” The words burst out, so loud the woman next to me gave me a wary glance. I turned away. “She ruined my life.”

Of course Wren was going to take this triumph from me. Of course.

Ursula didn’t respond. After a moment I exhaled. She’d done so much for me. Much more than she’d needed to.

“Look, I’m sorry.” I forced myself to sound calm. “I know I sound dramatic.”

“I mean, I don’t want to sound harsh, but yes.” Ursula was now using her Tough but Kind Voice, which I’d mostly heard her use on Wren when she was being crabby. “I’m sorry, but you need to get over it and move on, Al. This is an incredible opportunity. And I picked you both because I believe in you both. So go to the retreat, ignore Wren, charm Roza, and write your ass off. Enough of this petty shit. Okay?”

“Okay.” I said it in a small voice. Now I’d gone and made Ursula mad, on top of everything else.

“Look.” Her voice was softer. “It’s just a month. You’re going to be so busy writing and connecting with Roza that you won’t even have the time to think about Wren. Just focus on you and know that, after this, you’ll never have to see each other again. How does that sound?”

“Yes.” I straightened up. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Her voice was cheerful again. “This is a huge opportunity, lady. And you deserve it. You’re an amazing writer.”

The words continued to ring in my ears after I hung up. I stared at my coffee, lost in the swirls of steam rising from the open cup, feeling stunned.

You’re an amazing writer.

A mixture of horror and despair filled my gut. I’d kept it a secret. Ursula didn’t know that I’d failed to write anything post-Wren.

I’d tried. Early on, I’d wake up early and prop my computer on my lap and stare at a blank screen, willing any phrase or fragment to rise. But at those times my mind went completely and stubbornly blank, like a white expanse of snow. I switched to a notebook and pen, hoping that would kick-start the words, but all I could do was write I don’t know what to write about and doodle childlike pictures of flowers and cats.

So I’d given up. I figured I’d get back into it at some point, but with the weeks and months passing, it began to seem less and less likely.

And then, as I sat there, the true reality hit, clubbing me in the back of the head.

I was going to Roza Vallo’s monthlong writing retreat with a killer case of writer’s block.





Chapter 4




Two weeks later I was on a train speeding north out of the city. It was a Friday afternoon and the car was nearly full. A skinny teen with giant headphones was slumped next to me. My sunglasses shielded me from the pale winter sunlight and I watched the dull landscape—gray buildings, empty lots—speed by.

I was on my way to Roza’s. I was actually on my way to Roza Fucking Vallo’s.

Time had broken down after that phone call with Ursula. Just as she’d predicted, I’d received the email that afternoon and had immediately responded: I’m so thrilled for the opportunity! I’d received an NDA, which I signed without reading it. Since then, my body had been filled with a low-grade buzz, like an electric fence just waiting for someone to test it.

Telling Sharon had been surprisingly satisfying. She’d almost lost her cool, her voice rising to a squeak. “Really? Next month? When the Bogman-Briggs is supposed to transmit?” But she couldn’t touch me. I was using all my vacation and sick days at once. And I’d already asked the other editors to cover me. In the end, she’d sent me out of her office with a disgusted shake of her head.

I pulled my copy of Maiden Pink, Roza’s most recent book, from my leather tote. I’d slipped it in at the last minute, wondering if it would be gauche to ask Roza to sign it. I’d bought it at the Brooklyn Book Festival at a rare Roza appearance six years before, but the event had devolved so quickly into chaos that she hadn’t stayed behind to sign anything.

The memory of the event had remained with me, in apparently minute detail, to take out and marvel at every so often like a cherished photo. It had just been so incredibly satisfying to experience the display of Roza’s power.

Wren had somehow gotten us into the sold-out event, which was held in St. Ann’s, a majestic church in Brooklyn Heights. Both of us were delighted that the profane Roza was being interviewed in God’s house. But the church didn’t have air-conditioning and it had been hot and humid despite the large, whirring fans. Roza was late. All of us packed into the old wooden pews fussed like colicky babies.

“This is ridiculous.” Wren fanned herself with a program. “If she doesn’t come out in five minutes, we’re leaving.”

“I’m sure it’ll start soon.” We were both hungover from the night before, but one of us had to remain calm. And there was a reason we needed to stay: when I got my book signed, I was planning to mention that I was also of Hungarian descent, a small but important tie between us. Roza would meet dozens if not hundreds of people that day—but maybe, just maybe, she’d remember me. And if I lived in a pocket of Roza Vallo’s brain, however small, I sensed it would bolster my own existence.