Turbulence

  Our last argument still left me feeling raw and allowed me to see that we’d finally reached the end of our relationship. There was nowhere else for us to go, and we needed to stay the hell away from each other before we ended up being even more messed up than we already were.

  Unable to write a long blog post, I simply wrote, “I think this really was the end for us,” and hit publish. Before I could shut down my laptop, there was a soft pinging sound. An immediate comment from my personal troll.

  (KayTROLL)—I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about you just as much as you’re thinking about him. Just my two cents. If I were you, I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it.

  I’d never responded to his troll-ish comments before, but with Meredith out of town and no one else to vent to, I typed a response.

  (Taylor G.)—No, I think this was finally the end for us. It feels different this time.

  (KayTROLL) You always say that. Then two days later, you go right back. (I’m not holding my breath on this one. Sorry.)

  I groaned, typing. “Well, CLEARLY this time is different because it’s been more than two days. It’s been damn near TWO MONTHS to be exact, so quite honestly? Fuck you and your “two cents.” Since you clearly don’t have a life, go find yourself another random and obscure blog to bother on a daily basis, please. I don’t have anything else for you.”

  There was one more reply before I logged off. A brief, “LOL. Still a hothead, I see. :-)”.

  I couldn’t think of a decent biting rebuttal, so I slammed the laptop shut altogether and fell back against my sheets. I needed to figure out a way to be re-assigned to a different home-base city as soon as possible.

  As I was thinking of the best possible excuse for a transfer, my phone rang. My mom. I immediately silenced her call. I didn’t need any additional doses of negativity right now.

  It rang once more minutes later, but my finger hovered over the silent button. It wasn’t my Mom attempting a second call. It was a number I hadn’t seen in forever. One I’d avoided and loathed for years.

  “Kimberly B”...

  ***

  Her full name was Kimberly Bronson, and she was once my literary agent.

  She scooped me up fresh out of graduate school—admiring my talent, promising me what every aspiring author secretly wanted: A book deal.

  She swooned over my words with her infectious personality, and pitched my ideas to publishers while I interned under an esteemed editor at The New York Times.

  Back then—just a few short years ago, life as a writer was good.

  Publishers were handing out book deals like brownies—baking them early in the morning and holding them out for whoever wanted a taste in the afternoon. Magazines were hiring the eager-faced girl with ambition and a smile, and newspapers were printing about their infinite number of internships because there was so much that needed to be written. So much that needed to be said.

  No one really cared who you knew, it was what you wrote. And as for me, small town girl from the outskirts of Massachusetts, even I wasn’t looked at like the know-nothing girl from a city no one gave a second-thought about. I was a fast-rising editor at one of the biggest papers in the country, and according to my supervisors, I was going to be lead editor within just a few years.

  I arrived to the office two hours early every morning—coffee for the superiors in hand, just to show them how hard I was willing to work. I did the work no one else wanted to do, completed the research that everyone else found mundane, and double checked the facts even after they were cleared by our legal team.

  Six months into my job at The New York Times, I was assigned to write about the sudden troubles and countless crashes in the aviation industry, how most of the airlines (except Elite) couldn’t buy good publicity.

  First, there was the Asian flight that disappeared over the Indian Ocean—so suddenly and mysteriously that no one could (and have yet to) figure out what happened. Next, there was a series of unexplainable crashes at American airports—all apparently triggered by pilots’ lack of emotional stability. And lastly, there was the final straw that thrust the industry into an uncontrollable tailspin: An American pilot, flying for a foreign carrier, deliberately crashed his plane into the side of a mountain, killing all one hundred and fifty passengers on board.

  I reported on each of these stories, exhaustively writing and rewriting the facts, and then I realized that, maybe, all of these things needed further research. Maybe they needed to be a book. And maybe, just maybe, I should figure out what Elite was doing right to avoid the issues that plagued every other airline.

  I sent the idea to Kimberly and within months, a handful of publishers asked for more additional details. Some passed, some never got further than the initial interest, but three large publishers did. After all the deals were laid on the table, we went with St. Martin’s Press, since they seemed the most enthusiastic about the idea.

  For six months, I was supposed to go undercover as a flight attendant—to try and get the real scoop about Elite Airways and the airline industry. And at the end, we’d “add a bit of a fiction to it for liability’s sake,” but it was going to be marketed as “the closest true account ever printed.”

  The book was to be titled, The Truth Behind the Mile High Club, but my author name wasn’t going to be my own. It was to be “Taylor G.” since “Gillian T.” and “Gillian Taylor” were “far too plain,” “not commercial enough” and “way too pretentious.”

  Everything was set.

  Or so I thought...

  Unfortunately, it was a lot harder to get hired as an Elite Airways flight attendant than I’d originally anticipated. I failed the interview session three times, so I had to temporarily settle for being a part time gate agent. It also turned out that publishers have a short term attention span—especially when the introduction of e-books and Kindles began to cause change.

  Slowly, the publishers laid off editors— claiming this had nothing to do with the rise of digital media. But then the magazines and newspapers began to hand out pink slips, and Fifth Avenue, once with one of the biggest stream of writers, became a dried up gorge of heartbroken dreamers.

  What was once celebratory and new hire parties in the morning, became the clearing of desks and teary-eyed phone calls in the evening.

  I paid no mind to that at first, though. I was still safely tucked in my internship, and working as a gate agent a few times a week; all while writing feverishly for six hours a night.

  When I completed the first draft of my book, the editor at the publishing house decided that it only needed a few tweaks, so it was given a release date that was nine months away. I was promised a small promotional tour, advertising in all of the best bookstores, and a pretty big print run for a debut author.

  All amazing things that never happened.

  Two weeks after I submitted my final version of the book, Kimberly called me to say that the publisher was pushing the release of Mile High Club back. A pilot had just successfully landed a plane in the Hudson River and everyone was calling him a hero and praising him for successfully saving all one hundred fifty passengers and five crew. Releasing my book within six months of such an incident wouldn’t be well received by the public.

  I didn’t panic. I knew things like this happened all the time. Besides, at that point, I’d finally passed the first round of the never-ending flight attendant interview process, and the publisher was offering me an advance to write a sequel.

  On Christmas, the day I planned to call my family and tell them all about my huge, secret accomplishment and the book’s late January release date, Kimberly called and said two things: 1. “They have to push the date back again, Gill. Turns out they are in some type of pricing war with Amazon, so they can’t put your book up for pre-order. Also, your book may not be in Barnes and Noble until later. They’re not giving much shelf space to authors who don’t have established fan-bases.” 2. “But! I was just at a conference and I met this huge indie author who has
just sold a million copies of her book! She also just got picked up by your publisher!”

  I plucked an ornament from my miniature Christmas tree and attempted not to sound disappointed.

  “I was telling this author about you and your story, and she’s agreed to blurb it!” She practically squealed. “She’s also going to ask her editor to feature your first two chapters at the back of her first printed book! If that’s okay with you, that is.”

  The bitter taste of disappointment immediately evaporated and I cried, agreeing with a loud “Yes!” I now felt that there was a silver lining to all of the previous setbacks.

  Just a few weeks later, I received the blurb from the smash indie author, Brooke Clarkson. It read, “The Truth Behind the Mile High Club is a beautiful, eye opening, and poignant debut. Ms. G’s prose unravels like a silk yarn and will keep you up all night!”

  I printed her words on a poster and framed it in my apartment, high above my desk so I could see it every morning before work. By then, I’d made it past the fourth round of flight attendant training and I was sure I’d be employed by the time I started writing the sequel.

  Mile High Club was finally slated to come out in the spring, a full year and a half from when it was originally guaranteed to publish. My boss at The Times had planned a release party, a few early review copies were being printed, and I was still waiting to tell anyone about it; I needed it to be in my hands and real first.

  However, just as I was getting excited about the many possibilities of being a published author, the very paper I worked for ran a dream-de-railing headline that altered any hopes I was clinging to:

  Smash Indie Author, Brooke Clarkson, to Publish New Book: The Mile High Club Unveiled

  I grabbed the paper and simply skimmed the article, hoping this was some type of joke, but it wasn’t. Her book sounded just like mine, and before I could ask my agent why I was never informed about this, my boss at The Times slammed an advance copy of Brooke’s book onto my desk.

  “Raymond is out with the flu and won’t be able to review this in time,” he said. “It’s not due to release for another three months, but he apparently stalked the publisher, insisting that we get a copy. You mind doing a short write up?”

  The question was rhetorical. He walked away shortly after asking.

  I stared at the book for an hour before flipping open its dust jacket, wanting to believe that her cover was only an homage to mine. That maybe, just maybe, there were only so many photos of planes worthy of being on the cover of a mass printed book.

  I started reading chapter one and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  This was my fucking book. This was my fucking story.

  Every word from my novel had been lifted and repurposed, masked under a more refined and rigid prose. Yet still, the blatant plagiarism shone through the ink.

  I flipped through the entire book, recognizing sentence structures and words I’d already written months before. As tears of anger fell down my face, I forced myself to actually read every word of the article in The Times, to see if she would, at the very least, credit me for her stolen work.

  “I have a friend who works in the airline industry,” she was quoted two paragraphs in. “I managed to snag a short two-month stint as a flight attendant and I’m excited to share this story with my readers.”

  When asked for the inspiration behind her story, she said, “Well, I’ve always wanted to write what I would enjoy reading. I was on a plane one day and I saw this flight attendant who looked like she had a story to tell. All of a sudden, I wanted to be in her shoes, know about her life, so I took that moment and decided to craft something semi fictional, but very meta-world.”

  At the bottom of the interview, there were a few lightning-round questions. One in particular stood out: “Did you read any books about flight attendants, aviation, or pilots while working on your novel?’

  “Not at all,” she’d answered. “I’ve actually never read any book regarding the airline industry. I crafted the story first and then I consulted a few experts for technicalities. I try my best to never, ever, read any other author’s work while I write.”

  Her lies cut deep, but the bolded line at the bottom of the article struck me the hardest: “For inquiries and further information about The Mile High Club Unveiled, contact the author’s agent: Kimberly B.”

  I’d never known heartbreak before that moment, never knew what it felt like to feel as if my heart had been yanked from my chest and stomped on repeatedly. I tried not to cry too loudly, but the thought of holding back tears only made me cry more.

  Not only did Brooke’s book come out a full three months before mine, it shot up the bestsellers’ charts. And it stayed there. For weeks. Her book was on the tip of every reputable critic’s tongue, and publishers were clamoring for more stories ‘just like it.’ However, when my book finally debuted, it was cruelly dismissed as a “knock off,” and the critics labeled it as “Nowhere near as good as its predecessor,” and “For a debut, Ms. G. should know better than to so obviously copy her superior.”

  I never opened a single envelope from my publisher after that. I tossed them all to the side in various corners of my apartment—keeping them as close and distant reminders of a tarnished dream. I stopped answering Kimberly’s phone calls and emails—the few that came anyway, and as much as it hurt me financially, I returned my twenty-five thousand-dollar advance for the sequel to the publisher.

  I was too hurt to write anything else for them again.

  What I did write was my first official column for The Times: “How It Feels When a Bitch-Ass Bestselling Author Steals from a Debut Author and How My Agent—Kimberly B of Bronson and E Literary Asshole Associates Backstabbed the Shit Out of Me.” I wasn’t classy or careful about it at all. I listed names, dates, and gave dead proof that almost every word in her book was a variation of mine.

  Since I was on amazing terms with the logistics team, and never had any prior problems, the article made it all the way to the layout department before my slander was detected.

  The next time I came into work, I was fired. Then banned.

  Then erased as if I’d never worked there.

  The same month I lost my dream-internship at The New York Times, I received an email from Elite Airways. I’d passed the final round of pre-screening but it would take a while before they would be able to fly me to Dallas for the full eight-week training session. And even then, they admitted that their newly hired attendants could remain on reserve from anywhere for four months to four years.

  I still had my part time job as a gate agent—which I had to keep, and there was a massive condominium complex I’d once done an exclusive exposé about. It was a beautiful, state-of-the-art building, full of million dollar homes, and from what I remembered in my report, it had a very high demand for “domestic engineers” and hired a new one every week.

  Desperate, I figured I’d give that job a temporary try. And above all else, I would stop writing for a while.

  I had to.

  ***

  I met Kimberly at Andrew’s Coffee on Fifth Avenue, spotted her as soon as I stepped inside.

  A beautiful Asian woman with long black hair, she still looked as friendly and approachable as she did when I first met her years ago.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling as I sat across from her. “Do you still take hazelnut and Splenda in your coffee?”

  “You actually remember something about me?” I rolled my eyes. “Shocking.”

  “So, you don’t take that anymore?”

  I stared at her.

  She pushed a cup of coffee toward me and smiled again. “How have you been? It’s been a long time since we last spoke. I’m actually surprised you answered my phone call.”

  “No shit.”

  “Um...” She sipped her tea, having the audacity to look confused. “Did I catch you on a bad day? Is something wrong?”

  “Yes.” I gritted my teeth. “Yes, you did catch me on a bad
day and yes, something is wrong—something is very wrong.”

  “Would you like to meet me some other day, then?”

  “I don’t want to meet you after today at all.” I tried to hold back and stay calm, but I couldn’t. “You are the worst fucking literary agent ever,” I said. “The fact that you still have my number is appalling and I hope the reason you’re here is because you’ve lost every client you’ve ever had.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Well, that sucks for them.” I crossed my arms. “Have you changed your process about signing new people now or is it the same? Lure them in with a debut book they didn’t write, slap their name on it, and voila! Instant fame and undeserved success.”

  She sighed. “I had no idea that Brooke was going to be influenced by your book, Gillian.”

  “Influenced? Influenced? Oh, now that’s grand. Is that what they’re calling plagiarism these days?”

  “I’ve apologized to you countless times.” She looked sincere. “I had no idea, and when I found out—”

  “You didn’t even tell me!”

  The café was suddenly silent and everyone was staring at me, but I didn’t care.

  “You didn’t even tell me, Kimberly.” I shook my head.

  “Because I wanted to avoid you behaving like this.”

  “Yeah, well. As always, great planning on your part. Whose book ideas is she stealing now? I’ve seen only the greatest of deals for her in Publishers Weekly—movies, foreign, audio. Must be nice.”

  “Gillian...”

  “I even saw her at a signing overseas where she apparently still doesn’t seem to read other authors’ books while she writes.” I leaned back in my chair. “Oh, and it was just last week when I read that she’s getting a very nice promotional tour for her latest release as well. Which client of yours did she steal that book from?”

  She sighed. “Are you going to let me talk, Gillian? Or are you going to sit there and treat me like shit all day?”