“Miss Berton.” A tall blonde woman I recognize as the chair of the department stands and motions for me to take the seat at the head of the conference table.
My heart beats wild in my chest. My nails bite into the palm of my hand, and I try to let the pain ground me.
“Tell us about your inspiration,” Dr. Figero says, jumping right in the moment I sit down. He taught a Russian lit lecture my first year of graduate school. “Why did you write this novel?”
Should I stand up? What kind of answer are they looking for? I didn’t prepare for this question. I didn’t prepare at all. My palms are sweating, heart racing. But my mind is numbingly quiet. “Can you repeat the question?”
“Why this novel? What were your inspirations?”
I take a breath, trying to get myself under control. “The idea… intrigued me, I guess? I’m not sure.”
I know exactly why I chose this story, but the truth gets stuck in my throat. I wrote it for Mom. She’d probably like the romance novel better, but I didn’t realize that when I started my thesis. I wanted to tell a story resembling hers. I also wanted to stick it to Jeremy and impress him at the same time. Live up to something better than the overemotional sweetbaby girl he sees me as. Something stronger. Harder. More intellectual.
I had secret dreams that my thesis novel would get published and get recognition of some sort. Win an award. Make a bestseller list. Something. I know that won’t happen. The book’s not as good as I imagined it’d be. I can see the confirmation of that on the faces of the professors staring back at me.
They accept my answer and shoot more questions at me. Some about particular things in the novel itself and some about my process for writing it. They’re kind, but not exuberant.
In the end, they approve the novel, but I can’t help feeling like I barely squeaked by. After they congratulate me, they stand, and disperse. Dr. Paatel and I are the last people in the room. He holds the door open, motioning for me to walk through. I scramble to my feet, clutching my purse, with Mom’s urn inside.
“Tell me about this other book you’re working on,” Dr. Paatel says as we walk out.
“Huh?”
“You’re writing another book, aren’t you?”
Oh, right. I forgot Cosmos told him I was writing two books at once. I wave a hand in the air like I’m shooing away a fly, or the very thought of the romance novel sitting at home on my nightstand. “It’s nothing.”
“Writing a book is never nothing.”
“It’s just… not very good.”
He glances over at me as we turn the corner and head toward the doors that will take us outside thebuilding. “If I can be quite frank… neither is your thesis.” His voice is gentle even though the words are stark.
“But… you just approved it.”
“I did. It’s not bad. There’s nothing truly wrong with it. You made the adjustments I suggested, but it’s still…” He pauses like he’s searching for the right word, or hesitant to say the word he wants to use. Then, he shrugs. “It’s boring.”
Unable to contain myself, I laugh for the first time since Mom’s death. It’s not really funny, but it’s all just too much. “I know,” I wheeze. “You’re right.”
Dr. Paatal gives me a concerned look. I compose myself, fidgeting with the strap of my purse, the heavy weight of the urn resting against my leg.
“That’s not to say that you’re a boring writer, Hazel,” Dr. Paatal says, almost stern. “I’ve been your advisor for two years, and I know what you’re capable of. I’m just not sure you’re really playing to your strengths or passionate about your subject. So, tell me about this other book.”
Am I passionate about the romance novel? No, not really. I mean, what does that even mean—passionate? I enjoyed writing it. But it’s not like I’m trying to say something important. I just wanted to write a good story. “It’s... a romance.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Well, it’s not, you know…” I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s just a romance.”
He gives me a knowing smile. “Send it to me.”
My face burns with embarrassment. I absolutelycannot let Dr. Paatel read my romance novel. I’d never be able to look at him again. “You don’t have to do that. I can’t?—”
“Stop.” He turns to face me and sets a hand on my shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “You’re a promising writer, Hazel. I want to read it.”
“But it’s?—”
“You can’t scandalize me, Miss Berton. I’ve been married for twenty-nine years, have four children, and my wife has an entire floor-to-ceiling bookshelf dedicated solely to romance novels.”
