Page 29 of The Deepest Lake
I think about all the social media posts I’ve seen, advertising the workshop. Maybe she doesn’t promise, but she implies that anyone who does the work, who is honest and open, will ultimately succeed.
Eva says, “I learned a long time ago not to talk about the commerce side of things. That’s why I have a different agent come for a Q and A at the end. This session it’ll be Marcy. She gets the publishing questions, not me. Speaking of agents, I need to call Richard.”
This, I tell myself, is the life anyone would desire, when you have to bounce between calls with your charming husband and your high-powered agent, neither of whom can wait to give you the latest good news.
“Come back in twenty minutes,” Eva says. “You can start working on the essay you promised me yesterday. A thousand words? Email it to me tonight.”
“Okay—”
“But wait, did you do a video with staff this afternoon?”
The interview I posted three hours ago, with the alum named Wendy, is old news. “Ten seconds of Concha looking wildly uncomfortable. Barbara . . . didn’t seem eager to talk on camera.”
“Nothing? But she needs to start promoting her book. And she loves to talk about how much she’s grown here. Get it done before the day’s over.”
I reassure Eva that I can do little videos of more alums and staff. But none of it’s a substitute. She’s the one people want to see.
“You’re right,” she agrees surprisingly quickly. “Let’s do a quickie right now. Then I’ll call Richard.”
Eva needs no time to prepare. She repositions her stool on the balcony, flips her hair, pats each cheekbone to rouse some color and lifts each breast a little higher in its cup.
“I thought I’d ask about how you first got published—”
“No,” Eva says, gesturing toward my phone, to let me know I should start filming. “Let’s talk about family conflict. Go.”
She already knows the questions that people always ask at readings. She launches into the story of how her sister didn’t want her to write about their immediate family.
“The last time I spoke to my sister, she handed me my purse and opened the door and said, ‘And now, you’re probably going to go home and write about this.’ And I said, ‘Yes. I am. It’s my story. It happened to me. You may have been present but so was I, and I own everything that’s happened to me, and if you want to write about it also, you have that choice. And if that means you’ll never talk to me again, then don’t.’ And she said, ‘But you only have one sister.’ And I said, ‘That’s true. But also, I only have one life.’”
Eva stops talking. She turns sideways, her profile to the camera, the volcanoes behind, so it looks like she’s gazing off toward the tropical foliage that edges her yard, musing in a bittersweet way, measuring the cost and the benefit of what she did. Of course, from her essays I already know that Eva would never let anyone stop her from writing something. Not a sibling, parent, spouse or grown child. I also know that my love of her writing began well before people got their top book recs or writing tips from online videos, but sad as it is, the world changes. Ironic that it’s a woman more than twice my age who is reminding me of that fact.
“Cut,” Eva says. “Take out any pauses so we still get time for the gaze at the end. It’s gotta be under thirty.”
“That was great,” I say, amazed to realize I spent thirty minutes on Wendy and Eva just did a self-interview in thirty-two seconds.
“Over the next two or three days, keep catching the alums when you can. Wendy was okay, but see if you can get anyone . . . less doddering.”
“Old, you mean?”
“And don’t film anyone who looks clearly unwell.”
Most of the frequent alumnae are past retirement age, and quite a few are writing illness memoirs about cancer, strokes or chronic pain.
“We need more . . . aspirational figures in our social media feeds.”
“But I keep telling you. You’re the aspirational figure.”
She tucks her chin into her neck, lips pursed, as if I’ve said something wrong. Then she laughs and spreads her arms wide: ta-da! “Juliet May, you are too much!”
In case I’ve misinterpreted, she sticks out her tongue again for good measure. Does Joyce Carol Oates ever stick her tongue out? Did Joan Didion ever crack a truly relaxed smile?
“I mean it,” I stammer, sounding like an infatuated flunky.
“I know you do.” She grows serious again. “You are an honest, authentic person. I knew that the first moment I met you. It’s what I love about you.”
That word—love—makes me feel uncomfortable. Then again, it’s just a word. I can be overly literal. Plenty of roommates and friends have told me so.
Eva’s expression softens. She embraces me in a sideways squeeze, nodding toward my phone. “Blogs and photos and endless personal updates—my last memoir wouldn’t have been published without all that.”