Together Apart: Change is Never Easy (12 page)

“Is this a trick question?”
 

“I was 7. But even at 7, I was a perfectionist about my work. You think I’m laid back? Not about what I create. If I had to erase something, a piece was ruined because you could still see the mark, and the eraser marred the paper. I had no concept of artistic interpretation, so I thought a drawing was only valid if it looked as much like the thing it was supposed to be as possible. I never let myself go and be free. So, I had impossible standards for a kid — hell, for an adult — and just drew and drew and drew. But finally I got something I liked. It was a drawing of Optimus Prime, from
Transformers
. And it was
perfect
, baby. At least to my eye then. Everyone marveled at it. My mom, my dad, even my sister … who as you know is the world’s snarkiest bitch.
 

“The local police department was sponsoring an art contest, but here’s the thing: It was anonymous. You submitted your piece and they randomized it somehow, gave it a number and tied that number to something else somewhere, so in the end, the winning piece could be matched with the artist. I’m not sure why they did it that way — something having to do with bias, I guess; it was supervised by this really pretentious artsy cock who always made a big deal about art being what it was and nothing more, whatever that meant — but they did, and so I got an idea. Or actually, my
mom
got an idea. She said I should submit my drawing in the 8-10-year-old category instead of the 6-8. But that scared the shit out of me. As perfect as I thought that drawing was, I suddenly found all sorts of things about it that needed to change. A line was wrong. It needed more shading. But my mom wouldn’t let me touch it, gave me the same basic speech I’m giving you now. It didn’t help, and I got more scared. I told her I didn’t want to submit it. She tried to fight me, but I was a kid and I cried. Eventually, she just gave up.

“Anyway, I felt better once I realized nobody would judge my art — even anonymously, where I’d only ever be ‘found out’ if I won — I relaxed, and didn’t mess with the drawing. I put it into this big portfolio I had and forgot about it.”

Zach drew a breath and smiled at Sam.
 

“They held that same competition the next year and the next year, and eventually, at 12, I got the balls to enter. I drew a portrait of my dad. It won the 10-15 category. I entered again the next year, and between the two competitions entered another three that I found. Each one was easier than the one before.”
 

Sam made a noncommittal frown. “Not apples to apples. Maybe
Relegated
is my
Transformers
drawing, and I’ll eventually publish something else. Your story just tells me you weren’t happy with something, so you chickened out. Then you eventually got over it and put something better out into the world.”
 

Zach was already smiling and shaking his head, a step ahead of her. Damn him. He’d probably left the loophole in the story on purpose, pausing so she could use it to hang herself.
 

“Four years after that first entry, at 16, I was cleaning my room at Mom’s insistence when I found that old portfolio. I remembered what had happened, and was shocked by how good it was, given that I’d been half my age at the time when I’d drawn it. On a whim, I decided to submit it to that same competition, which was right around the corner. But there was one problem. I couldn’t submit it into 6-8 or even 8-10 even though I’d drawn it when I was 7.”
 

“So you submitted it into the 16 to whatever,” said Sam.
 

“Nope. I submitted it with adults.” Zach chuckled at the memory. “I didn’t win, of course. It was a big competition, thanks to the artsy asswipe. But I did place third.”
 

Sam laughed.
 

“People made a big deal out of it — some 16-year-old kid beating out tons of adults. But I’d drawn it when I was 7, and didn’t change a damn line.” He tipped his beer neck at Sam. “So you see, you can’t judge its true awesomeness because fear is in the way. And I’m telling you, Sam, your book is awesome. All you need to do is to get a cover … ” He set a hand on his chest in offering. “ … and hit ‘publish.’”
   

“No way.”
 

“Really. Because you’re a chicken shit?”
 

“Because you have to say it’s good so I’ll have sex with you.”
 

“And also because I love you.”
 

“Well, sure, but I think we both know where your true motivations lie.”
 

Zach shook his head, then raised three fingers like a Boy Scout. “Artist’s honor, Sam. It’s good. Very good. But in the end, how good it is doesn’t even matter. All that matters is that you get it out there. You have to ship.”
 

“Ship?”
 

He nodded. “It’s a Seth Godin thing.”
 

“Does he work with Mitch Hedberg?”
 

“Not that I’m aware of.”

She met his eyes. “You really mean this?”

“Totally. In fact, the deal with me taking a so-called ‘real job’ is contingent upon it. If you don’t publish, you’ll end up with a husband who is totally unwilling to live any sort of responsible life. I’ll probably go well past being a flitty artist. I may start playing video games all day while eating nachos.”
 

Sam stared at him. He was serious.
 

“Look,” he said. “You’re an amazing storyteller. That book?” He thumped his chest twice with his fist. “Hits you right in the heart. You’ve a real talent for it.”
 

After a long second, Sam cracked a smile. Zach’s brown eyes might have been more sincere than she had ever seen them before. He truly was an amazing artist, and younger artists came to him all the time asking for advice. His thoughts on selling and distributing work was shit, but his advice on creating it sounded like something from a Buddhist manual. It was beautiful in its articulation, so perfect that it sounded to Sam like something that belonged in a book to be cherished, maybe worshipped.
 

Zach’s words were true — and what’s more, according to his belief, they were also in her own best interest. Sam had no illusions about publishing her book and seeing it hit the bestseller lists, but that wasn’t his point. Zach believed that art was like a child, and that once born, it no longer belonged wholly to the creator. It became its own being, and the job — the
responsibility
— of the artist was to shepherd that art and give it its best possible chance to thrive. And he was right; Sam had felt it coming alive inside her as she’d built the world and filled it. The story was part her, and part something else. She could no more leave it in her computer’s hard drive than she could leave a child in a crib forever. Sam was a kind person with a kind soul, Zach often told her. That soul required expression, and it couldn’t be expressed further until she shipped her first creative project. Anything less was a crime against herself, and anything else she might later bring into the world.
 

“You swear?”
 

“I swear,” he said.
 

It was scary, but Sam considered it anyway.
 

The book was intensely personal. There were parts of herself in every character, and she’d stocked their backstories with stories from her personal narrative. Readers wouldn’t know that, of course; they’d read it as a tale to be spun. But
she’d
know. And what if they criticized it? What if they said her creation was awful? Sam didn’t know if she could handle that. But she’d told Zach all about the writing she’d done as a kid and as a teenager, before he’d met her. He’d been fascinated, eager to learn that despite her need to put things in order, she’d spent so much time being disorderly inside. Every artist was slightly damaged, with loose ends inside that never quite healed. He had enjoyed seeing that vulnerability, so like the vulnerability inside himself. Once upon a time, she had wanted to be a writer. Sam had even sent short stories to literary magazines and started collecting rejection letters like scars. Then she’d grown up, and by the ripe age of 18, had stopped creative writing altogether. Looking back, it seemed like a naive, childlike pursuit she had engaged in before knowing better, before she had learned to start crossing T’s and dotting I’s. To this day, that childlike naiveté was the place Zach returned to often, and taught others to rediscover after they’d lost it.
 

Sam nodded, smiling in a way that probably looked more confident than she felt. She didn’t feel confident, but confidence and courage weren’t one and the same. Sam could take a leap of faith. She could do it for Zach, because to him, it mattered so very much.
 

“Okay,” she said.
 

“Okay?”
 

“Yeah.” Bigger smile. Now it almost hurt her cheeks. She felt elated, the kind of feeling she got when doing something delirious enough to feel almost dangerous. Swinging too high on a swing set. Bouncing on a trampoline, losing sight of the ground. And Zach? He looked even happier, because he was never ashamed of being giddy. He had been harassing her about publishing
Relegated
since first reading it. No one else had cared so much, about Sam or her creations.
 

“Awesome! I’m so happy!”
 

“And you’ll look for a job,” she said.
 

“And there it went. But it’s okay. I had my happy moment before you squashed it. Yes, I’ll look for a job.”
 

“Not a freelance job. One with a salary.”
 

“Salary, ball, and chain, the works.”
 

“As a life-support system,” she clarified. “I don’t want you to think I’m like, tying you down.”
 

“I would be okay with that, actually,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
 

“A job will allow you to focus more on your art, rather than feeling like you had to rush it and make compromises.” Sam pushed on, ignoring his lechery.
 

“Yes. I will be totally focused while in my cubicle for all eight hours.”
 

Sam looked up. She had just agreed to free her soul and now, by contrast, it felt like she’d talked him into boxing his in. It was an unfair and cruel thought. Sam didn’t want it.
 

“But you do understand, right?”
 

He nodded. “Yes. I understand.”
 

“And you think it’s a good idea.”
 

Still nodding. “Yes. I really do. It’s easy to fly high, but we live in the real world.”
 

“Do you hate me for suggesting it?” she asked, her eyes almost pleading.
 

He smirked. “Do you hate me for suggesting that you publish your book?”
 

Sam smiled back. “Okay. Then we’re even.”
 

CHAPTER NINE

Three Years Ago

Zach’s arms circled her waist, breath at the back of her neck. He kept giving Sam small kisses. It was sweet, but making her research more difficult.
 

They were standing in the apartment’s second bedroom, which had become Sam’s at-home office, both with their backs to the door. The floor’s carpet was soft, so Zach’s approach was silent. Her head had been down, hands shuffling through yet another of her desk piles. Sam hated piles because they made things more stressful, which she didn’t need on top of an already stressful few weeks. Sam’s work wasn’t any greater because her paperwork was out in the open, but she was definitely more aware of her undone to-do’s. Zach’s workspace was neat by comparison. He never brought work home, so his entire job fit into the picture-book-sized space required by his laptop. And closet-sized studio they had the audacity to call a third bedroom — Zach hadn’t been using it much, so even the one room with tacit permission to be as disorderly as it wanted was almost spic and span. They had traded places. Sam was now the eccentric pile-maker, and Zach the pro who always dropped his work shirts into the hamper and never left paint smeared on the couch.
 

“So, how are things with you?” he asked, whispering in her ear.
 

“Nuts,” Sam said. “My boss promoted me. You know how that works at newspapers, right?”
 

“More work but no more pay?”
 

“You got it.” She picked up one of the piles, then riffled its edges like a flip book. The Xerox she was looking for didn’t manifest, and no bunnies animated in small drawings at the corner — terrible, so far as flipping experiences went.

“Well, congratulations anyway,” Zach said, hugging her tighter. “What’s your new title?”

“Promotions also don’t come with a new title.”
 

“So how is it a promotion?”
 

Sam pulled free from Zach’s arms and turned around. He stood behind her in a blue button-up with the collar open and a bright-white tee beneath. He wore khaki slacks and brown shoes. Only his hair still had the wild, unashamed look she’d always known.
 

“Like this,” she said, shoving the stack toward him. “‘I promote this load of crap onto your plate.’” He took the papers when they struck his chest. Then, with her empty hands, she took hold of his upper arms, leaned forward, and pecked him on the lips, one high-heeled foot kicking up behind her like something from a ‘50s caricature.
 

“I’m home,” he said.
 

“I see that. Did you have fun?”
 

“Not particularly. Want me to start dinner?”
 

She smiled, looking back up from her annoyed search, renewed the second after she had asked her perfunctory question. He was so cute. If they were doing a Ward and June Cleaver, Zach would have stepped right into the June role rather than being a chauvinist asshole. It was the sort of small thing she tried to appreciate, though she probably took too much about Zach for granted.