Confidence is Key

I held my breath. Everyone in the circle of amateur writers was looking at me curiously, and all I could think was Oh no, oh no - they hate it. And no one’s going to say anything. They’re all too polite… oh, if only I could take it back! Please, please, there has to be a way to fix this.

My stomach was in knots. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of my forehead. Each second that crawled by seemed eternal. I had just pitched my new idea to everyone, and then decided to read out the first few hastily written chapters. It had been only yesterday that I scrawled them out in a fever of inspiration, but now I would give anything to take them back from the world and its harsh honesty. Unfortunately, I was condemned by powers much greater than myself to watch time march me steadily onwards, awaiting the mortification that was sure to swallow me any second now.

Finally, a tall young woman with brown hair braved the silence. It was Maryssa. She was the most successful of all the writers here – something I had gathered from the looks of admiration which had greeted her announcement at the start of the session; yet another of her stories had taken first place in a local competition. I had joined in on the applause enthusiastically, wondering if I could ever feel as she did then – as though a brand-new future had just unrolled itself in front of my feet. I was new to the writing circle - new to writing, in fact. It was my husband who had encouraged me. I made a mental note to curse him later.

Now she was looking straight at me, casually tossing aside a strand of long, glossy hair which had tumbled in front of her eyes, a kind smile playing on her lips. My stomach lurched again, but a small hope dangled momentarily in front of my eyes, drawn out by that smile. Maybe she had liked it.

She had not.

“Debby, honey,” she began, in a gentle voice. “Your story is, well – a good start. I can see that you probably have an abundance of talent hidden away somewhere within that gorgeous soul. And I can’t wait to read the wonderful work that you’ll no doubt produce someday. Maybe just not with that particular story. It’s a cute idea, but I’m just not sure that anyone would want to read it. But don’t worry! All of us started out that way. I’m sure that if you stick with it, one day you’ll succeed.”

I wanted to run screaming from the room, but I was rooted to the spot. All I could do was nod like an idiot, choke out a “thank you”, and collapse into my plastic chair. All around me, I saw surprised faces transformed to sympathetic nods look pityingly down at me. I was sure they were surprised anyone could be so kind as Maryssa had been in her gentle criticism.

“Thank you, Maryssa, very well said,” said the administrator. I sank even lower into my depths - something I would have thought impossible. I had been so certain the administrator had liked my idea. Perhaps I had misread the expression she had worn as I talked about it – her smile had given me the courage to read out my roughwork. I should stop trusting smiles, I thought. Anyway, whatever the administrator’s opinion had been before, the weight of all of Maryssa’s accomplishments and easy confidence had crushed her initial impulse.

We all moved on after that – everyone except me, that is. The hour dragged to its end and I rushed home, pretending not to hear a few friendly voices calling out my name as I left. I did not yell at (or curse) my husband but merely said that the circle “wasn’t my kind of thing” in a voice that warned him not to probe any further. Later that evening, I burned every last word I had written and watched the fire blaze to its last ember with satisfaction. There, I said to myself. It never happened.

I never looked back.

Until one day, a little over a year later, when I happened to pass by a bookstore downtown. It had been a good day – the manager had liked my ideas about the new marketing strategy – and my husband and I had decided to celebrate by picking up some of our favourite Chinese food. I was on my way to the restaurant when something in that bookstore caught my eye and I pulled up short. Sitting proudly on a little stand all of its own was a book entitled “Fire and Ice” – but the title wasn’t what had caught my attention. Beside the stand was a poster bearing a photograph of a certain smiling brunette, and her name blared out at me from the “About the Author” description below: Maryssa Hemmingway. Well, I’ll be, I thought. She finally did it.

Beside the description were many glowing reviews and a list of the numerous awards the book had won – New York Times bestseller, Publisher’s Weekly award-winner… the list went on. Almost against my own will, it seemed, I was drawn into the store, and picked up a paperback copy to thumb through.

“Excellent choice,” said the shop assistant standing nearby, making me jump a little. “It’s a great book – I wonder where she got the idea. I’ve ever read anything like it before!”

I smiled and nodded, then returned my attention to the novel which lay in my hands. I flicked through the pages at random, reading excerpts here and there, and growing gradually more astounded as I went on. Finally, I closed it and stared dumbfoundedly at the little picture of Maryssa Hemmingway mocking me from the back cover. It was my book! Cleverly disguised as her own, with the characters’ names changed, and the plot twisted slightly away from where I had drawn it out amidst that circle of plastic chairs, but there was no doubt about it. It was mine!

Rage coursed threw me, filling my veins with fire from the top of my head right down to the tips of my toes. I could never have imagined that smiling, simpering girl capable of such blatant plagiarism! Well, I thought. We’ll just see about that. For though I may have burnt the pages of evidence to a crisp, there was a roomful of witnesses to back me up. I felt slightly reassured, and even allowed a small happy thought to flit across my mind: People had liked the story.

Chinese food forgotten, I threw money at the bookstore assistant and rushed home with a copy of the book. I found the contact details of all the writers from the circle online and dialled each of them straight away, feeling too impatient to wait for e-mail replies. Most of the voices on the other end of the line sounded exceedingly uncomfortable. It couldn’t have been plainer they wished I hadn’t called, but I didn’t care. By the end, I finally had a list of names of people who were willing to help me – shorter than I would have liked, though. Not many were willing to cross Maryssa.

I filed a charge for plagiarism and waited. Many long weeks passed before I received an answer, which was brief and rang with a note of ominous finality. With no actual written evidence to support my testimony, there was nothing that could be done.

I was crushed. To think that all this time my idea had been worthwhile, and the very person who told me it wasn’t had used my work to propel herself to fame! It was despicable. A few minutes after I had hung up with the court official, who had seemed very sympathetic, I dialled Maryssa’s number with shaking fingers.

“Hello?” she answered brightly from the other end, and the cheerful voice arrested me; I didn't think I could get the words out. Fortunately, few were needed.

“Why did you do it?” I asked, teeth clenched.

“Who’s this?” The voice sounded considerably darker.

“You know who it is, Maryssa. You took my story! I know there’s nothing I can do about it now, but you did it. And I have to know why. It’s the least I deserve from you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the voice responded. It sounded, surprisingly, like she was on the verge of tears.

“Of course, you do! You stole my plot, my characters, everything!” I was incredulous. Of all the things I might have expected, utter denial was pretty low on the list. Although, it occurred to me, I could have been recording this call. I hadn’t thought of that.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t, Debby. Our ideas are remarkably similar, I will admit, but everyone knows that it’s the writing itself people are buying. The inspiration behind a story is meaningless. Worthless, in fact.”

Her voice was steadier now. It almost sounded like she was trying to convince herself rather than me.

“Well, it’s alright, Maryssa. In fact, I called… I called to say thank you.”

“Wh-what?” she was completely taken aback. This was obviously the last thing that she – or I, until a moment ago – had expected.

“Yes. Thanks to you, I’ll never doubt my ideas again. And that’s worth more to me than all the bestsellers you could write.”

With that, I hung up the phone.

I did go on to great success, but I’ll never forget that writer’s circle where my career almost ended before it began. I often wonder how many dreams are stifled by jealousy and fear wrapped in smiles and polite polish.

I guess we’ll never know.