Page 81 of This Time It's Real
I feel like I’m about to throw up or have a mini panic attack because of your email, thank you. And how are you?“I’m good,” I manage.
“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m sorry to reach out so suddenly, but I really wanted to talk to you about your article . . .”
“What did you think?” I sound so desperate. Soyoung.
“It’s . . .” And then she pauses. For at least twenty seconds. Nobody pauses like that when they’re about to tell you your article was the best thing they’ve ever read. It’s an I’m-sorry-to-inform-you-your-missing-relative-was-found-dead-in-a-ditch kind of pause. An I-might’ve-accidentally-run-over-your-dog-on- my-way-to-work kind of pause.
Sweat slicks my palms, my skin flashing hot and cold, then hot again. I start pacing around the balcony, as if moving might help redirect all my nervous energy.
“It’s . . . different,” Sarah finally says. Her voice is strained. “It’s very different from your blog posts.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just stay silent, and all the while my stomach clenches tighter and tighter.
Then she releases an audible sigh. “I’m just going to be honest with you. You know how important authenticity and passion is to our brand, and I’m afraid I didn’t really feel any of that come through as I was reading. I mean, it was clearly well researched, but the writing fell flat, and I couldn’t really see a message to the piece, you know? As a whole, it felt very . . . hollow.”
“Oh” is all I can manage at first. I swallow hard, fighting the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry. “Oh, that’s—I mean, that’s fair. That’s fine.”
“I hope I’m not coming across as too harsh, Eliza,” Sarah continues, and the creep of sympathy in her voice—of pity, even—somehow makes me feel a thousand times worse. “Because I wanted to love this. I truly did. And you know how much Iadoreyour work overall. I mean, that first essay was so joyous and authentic and sincere—which, I think, is the crux of the issue here.”
A buzzing fills my ears, the irony of her words hitting me like a slap in the face. How could an essay I’d completely made up besincere? An essay on a kind of feeling I’d never even experienced?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, it seems you write best when you truly believe in what you’re writing about.”
“Right. Okay. That’s—okay.”
“But don’t despair,” Sarah adds. “I’ve spoken with my team, and we’re all happy to give you one more chance with this. To write on a topic of your choosing. Of course, if we run into similar issues again . . .”
The unspoken end of her sentence is clear. If I don’t produce something she loves, there won’t be a next chance. This will be the end. My recommendation letter gone and my potential writing career over before it even properly began.
I stop pacing and press my forehead to the cold glass of the balcony window, letting my breath cloud the surface. If I squint, I can make out the bare, crooked trees planted down below, the children racing through the playground, the couple walking in leisurely circles around the still lake, the dim afternoon sun painting their silhouettes a gentle blue gray.
All of them seem hundreds of miles away.
“Don’t worry,” I hear myself say. “I’ll give you something else. Something better. I swear.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Eliza.” She sounds relieved. “I sincerely hope you do. Oh, and just to double-check—is everything still good to go for the interview?”
Again, my thoughts drift to Caz, and my throat constricts. There might’ve been a time where I could give her a gentle disclaimer about him possibly-very-likely not showing up, but that’s no longer a viable option. Right now, my role at Craneswift is hinging on my personal essay and my relationship with Caz; I can’t screwthatup too.
“Yes,” I say with false cheer. “Yep. Of course.”
As soon as I hang up, I grab my laptop from my bedroom and read through the article I sent her. I’m about four paragraphs in when I realize with a sharp pang that Sarah Diaz was right. Itdoesfeel hollow. Despite it being an opinion piece, the whole thing reads like one of those awful AI-generated news reports. There’s no passion. No flow. Nospark.
Because if I’m being totally honest with myself . . . I don’t care about the topic. Never did. I just thought it was the kind of thing that would seem impressive.
Even the tightness in my chest now has nothing to do with the article itself but with the thought of having disappointed Sarah and the others at Craneswift, and the terrifying prospect of failing again.
Which is why I can’t let that happen.
I turn away from the window. Take a deep, steadying breath to clear my head. I promised Sarah something better, and I’ll deliver. I have to. All I need is to figure out what specific ingredient it was that made Sarah fall in love with my completely fictional personal essay and replicate it, and everything else will work out. Easy.
I can do this.
I can’t do this.
It’s midnight, according to the alarm clock beside my bed, and I’ve been staring at a blank Word document for the past six hours. I’m fairly sure my brain started disintegrating at the two-hour mark.
