Read Online Looking for a Love Story by Louise Shaffer - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Shaffer
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vacation. Stop driving yourself crazy, and let’s have some fun.”
Fun? How the hell could I have fun when I was terrified that I couldn’t write another book? I had to keep on fighting until I’d proved to myself that I could do it. “Why don’t you go by yourself for a couple of weeks?” I said. “I think I’m close to a breakthrough.” That was the thing—I always thought I was close to a breakthrough. Each morning when I got up I was sure that this was the day.
Jake looked at me for a long time. “I don’t like all this drama, Francesca,” he said. “I’m Shallow Guy, remember?”
“I just want to write a book again. I just want that feeling you get when everything is flowing.”
“And I want to have a life. Everything can’t stop dead for your creative muse.”
But writing was the only thing I’d ever done well. I’d loved the feeling of being good at something. And yeah, I’d loved the applause afterward. I’d gotten hooked on that.
Jake went to a resort in Mexico by himself. And our buddy Andy flew down to hang out with him for a day. And yes, I know how that sounds—how it probably would have sounded to me if I’d been paying attention. If I hadn’t been so busy failing as a writer. But when Jake called to tell me how much fun they’d had, and Andy got on the phone to tell me a funny story about Jake trying to bargain in the local market for a hat he wanted to bring me—or maybe it was a handbag—it seemed perfectly innocent. I mean, a man can have a woman friend, can’t he? We’re all adults here, right?
So Jake went to Mexico and came back. And I was still beating my brains out trying to come up with a new idea. I reread booksI’d loved and rented old movies, telling myself I was looking for inspiration. Finally I stopped lying to myself and admitted I was hoping to find a story I could cannibalize. But I couldn’t even do that. Nothing worked.
Meanwhile, my loved ones were getting on with life. My brother was given a grant by a prestigious foundation to design the definitive green city someplace where there was perpetual sunshine—I forget the country. His wife had her own grant to work with him on the ecological and environmental components. Their little daughter, who was now two, was already speaking both English and Spanish, and her parents were talking about starting her on a third language. My mother was profiled in a college textbook about influential women of the late twentieth century. I tried to be pleased for them, but to be honest, the fact that they had all gone into super-achiever mode was driving me nuts.
Then, just to put the cherry on the Misery Sundae, Nancy announced that she was quitting the business. “I’m adopting a little girl from China,” she told me, at the last of our lunches, “and I need some time off. So I’m going back to California to be near my mother.”
“But you’re one of the best agents in the city.”
“I’m not getting any younger, Francesca. I’ve always wanted to be a mom, and it’s now or never.”
She was two years younger than I was—that was the first thing I thought. Then I wailed, “What’ll I do without you? Who’s going to sell my books?”
Nancy’s eyes met mine and we had one of those awkward moments. The words What books? hung in the air. That was when I realized it had been three years since I published Love, Max .
“Congratulations on the adoption,” I said, in my chirpiest voice. “If this is what you want, I’m so happy for you!”
“Me too.” Then she drew a breath. “Francesca? I still believe in you.”
I managed not to cry then. It wasn’t until I was standing on the subway platform on my way home, and this guy pulled out his violin and started playing it after putting his hat on the ground in front of him for tips, that I started to sob. I’m pretty sure we all know what the life lesson here is. When you start weeping because someone is playing “Ave Maria”—very badly—in the
Fun? How the hell could I have fun when I was terrified that I couldn’t write another book? I had to keep on fighting until I’d proved to myself that I could do it. “Why don’t you go by yourself for a couple of weeks?” I said. “I think I’m close to a breakthrough.” That was the thing—I always thought I was close to a breakthrough. Each morning when I got up I was sure that this was the day.
Jake looked at me for a long time. “I don’t like all this drama, Francesca,” he said. “I’m Shallow Guy, remember?”
“I just want to write a book again. I just want that feeling you get when everything is flowing.”
“And I want to have a life. Everything can’t stop dead for your creative muse.”
But writing was the only thing I’d ever done well. I’d loved the feeling of being good at something. And yeah, I’d loved the applause afterward. I’d gotten hooked on that.
Jake went to a resort in Mexico by himself. And our buddy Andy flew down to hang out with him for a day. And yes, I know how that sounds—how it probably would have sounded to me if I’d been paying attention. If I hadn’t been so busy failing as a writer. But when Jake called to tell me how much fun they’d had, and Andy got on the phone to tell me a funny story about Jake trying to bargain in the local market for a hat he wanted to bring me—or maybe it was a handbag—it seemed perfectly innocent. I mean, a man can have a woman friend, can’t he? We’re all adults here, right?
So Jake went to Mexico and came back. And I was still beating my brains out trying to come up with a new idea. I reread booksI’d loved and rented old movies, telling myself I was looking for inspiration. Finally I stopped lying to myself and admitted I was hoping to find a story I could cannibalize. But I couldn’t even do that. Nothing worked.
Meanwhile, my loved ones were getting on with life. My brother was given a grant by a prestigious foundation to design the definitive green city someplace where there was perpetual sunshine—I forget the country. His wife had her own grant to work with him on the ecological and environmental components. Their little daughter, who was now two, was already speaking both English and Spanish, and her parents were talking about starting her on a third language. My mother was profiled in a college textbook about influential women of the late twentieth century. I tried to be pleased for them, but to be honest, the fact that they had all gone into super-achiever mode was driving me nuts.
Then, just to put the cherry on the Misery Sundae, Nancy announced that she was quitting the business. “I’m adopting a little girl from China,” she told me, at the last of our lunches, “and I need some time off. So I’m going back to California to be near my mother.”
“But you’re one of the best agents in the city.”
“I’m not getting any younger, Francesca. I’ve always wanted to be a mom, and it’s now or never.”
She was two years younger than I was—that was the first thing I thought. Then I wailed, “What’ll I do without you? Who’s going to sell my books?”
Nancy’s eyes met mine and we had one of those awkward moments. The words What books? hung in the air. That was when I realized it had been three years since I published Love, Max .
“Congratulations on the adoption,” I said, in my chirpiest voice. “If this is what you want, I’m so happy for you!”
“Me too.” Then she drew a breath. “Francesca? I still believe in you.”
I managed not to cry then. It wasn’t until I was standing on the subway platform on my way home, and this guy pulled out his violin and started playing it after putting his hat on the ground in front of him for tips, that I started to sob. I’m pretty sure we all know what the life lesson here is. When you start weeping because someone is playing “Ave Maria”—very badly—in the
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