“I don’t want my writing to be tied to my family name,” I say. “I want my stories to stand on their own, unattached to my family’s achievements.”
For so many years, my dream of publishing a novel lived in a protected cocoon, safe from expectation, pressure, and rejection.Safe from the reality of being known as only one thing: Luella Farrow’s youngest daughter. While the literary agents I’ve queried in the past promised huge book deals and placement on prestigious bestseller lists due to my family’s connections and resources, I’ve never wanted the Farrow name to be a stepping stone for my success as an author. I’ve only ever wanted to know—neededto know, even—that I’m a storyteller by talent and not by fame.
Yet once again, the answer to that ever-elusive question remains up in the air.
I can almost hear Adele’s reply to my musings:“When will you finally accept what I’ve beentelling you,Raegan? You’ll always be a Farrow first.Your name is not a filter you can take on and off. It’s permanent. What you do affects allof us.”
My phone vibrates again. I ignore it. Adele has had me at her beck and call nearly twenty-four hours a day for years now. She can give me one hour.
The short buzzes indicate she’s left multiple texts. I don’t look at the screen.
“You’ve obviously given a lot of thought to this,” Chip continues.
“I have, yes.”
His nod is slow, yet his expression remains open, empathetic even. I’ve just set fire to his hope of signing an author with access to a built-in fan base of hundreds of thousands, and yet he’s still here. Still sitting with me. That’s more than the last literary agent I queried ever did.
“It’s no secret that a known brand is an easier sell than an unproven one,” he begins. “The marketing strategy that’s been used for decades by clothing designers, product labels, automotive branding, and music bands is essentially the same for authors and their books.” He releases a long exhale. “I wish I could tell you that the current marketplace is kinder to debut novelists than it is ... but I believe in your story too much to mislead you. Starting from scratch by using a pen name with no backlist to work off of and no real visibility is a tough sell to any publisher. In our industry, like so many others, names and connections are important.”
“Of course,” I whisper around the growing lump in my throat. “I understand.” I swallow and lift my head. “I appreciate you taking the time to review my manuscript, Chip, and I apologize again for the misunderstanding about—”
The abrupt shake of his head cuts off my polite attempt to wrap up our meeting. “When it comes to your talent, there’s no misunderstanding. I’d want to publish this book if you were writing as Luella Farrow’s daughter or as Big Bird.”
Despite my increasing heartache, a mournful laugh escapes me. “I promise you my pen name is better than Big Bird.” I’d planned to use Sunny Rae—a combination of my two childhood nicknames—but when I think it over now, it sounds almost as ridiculous as Big Bird.
“I’m sure it is,” he concedes, “but regardless, creating a marketable pen name will require a lot of time, energy, and diligence. If that’s the route you decide on, I can send you information on how to grow your socials, along with advice on how to utilize any of your past writing efforts for contest submissions in order to grow in name recognition and visibility. Earning some accolades under that name would be a good start.”
“I understand.” I drop my gaze to the condensation slipping down the sides of my cup and process what he’s actually saying: the path he’s describing now won’t involve a publishing contract from Fog Harbor Books, at least not until I establish a reputable foundation for my pen name.
Chip studies me for a long moment before he adds, “As counterintuitive as it might be for me to say this to you, you could also look into self-publishing as an option.”
I meet his gaze, stunned again by his forthrightness and honesty. I’d done my research on self-publishing. Truth is, I’ve enjoyed all sorts of books by many authors who’ve chosen that option. Yet when I think about finding the time to learn an entirely new businessandexecute it well while also doing my best to remain anonymous, it seems about as plausible as joining the witness protection program to escape my family responsibilities.
“I appreciate the option, but I don’t think it’s the right one for me,” I say, as disappointment continues to weave its way through my ribs.
For the briefest of moments, I allow myself to imagine how incredible it would be to sign a publishing contract with Fog Harbor Books as someone else. Someone born into a typical family with typical jobs and who grew up in a typical home with typical siblings. Someone who’s never had to question if their achievements are based on their own merit or a family member’s. Someone whose every life decision isn’t discussed and dissected like an agenda item at a monthly business meeting.
He nods as if he’s not surprised by my response. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you something that will work for us both at this time, Raegan.”
Suddenly unable to speak, I can only swallow and nod.
Chip looks down at his laptop screen and then begins to read out loud without preamble, “The Sisters of Birch Groveis both universally relevant and deeply personal. Readers will wonder what window Farrow snuck through in order to write such a detailed observation of a family.” His smile turns pensive when he glances my way again. “I wrote that after I read the last chapter—after the sisters finally reconcile. It’s obvious you know a thing or two about family dynamics.”
Yet another reason for a pen name, I suppose. As Raegan Farrow, the readers familiar with my family would be wondering what parts of my stories are true and what parts are fiction. But when I write, I’mnotanalyzing the divide between my life and my characters. I’m simply writing the narrative that speaks to me.
Writing has been the only thing that’s truly been mine since the day our father died and left Adele in charge of everything ... and everyone.
“...touch base in the future.”
I blink Chip back into focus as he’s politely wrapping up our meeting. I clear my throat and thank him again for his time, knowing that realistically this will likely be the last time we meet underthese circumstances. Neither of us has made false promises as to what the future holds for my publishing journey or lack thereof.
Perhaps I should be content with my current reader audience of two—Cheyenne and Allie. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe I need to make it be enough.
As I gather my things, Chip’s attention returns to his laptop. So this time, when my phone buzzes, I give in to the pull and tap the waiting string of text messages from my oldest sister.
Adele:
Where are you? Why does the tracking app show you’re offline?