Extraordinary Heart: Chapter 2

Diana sorts through her mail. It has become quite a distraction. She has a grand total of three poems and three-quarters of a short story done, all of which are in need of serious revision. Another letter from her editor, probably asking for a revised version of the incomplete The Heirs of Sonriso I, the infamous fourth novel that Diana now works on when she’s not working on her second anthology. Diana made the same promise she made while doing the second and third novels of the Sonriso chronicles; she swore to do only one book at a time. What started as a few inspirations for the novel became writing sections of scenes she wanted to capture. She informally showed them to Danielle, her editor, and now, she had two pots on the stove, once again. Must I be so creative? Why must my blessing also be a curse? Ooh, maybe I should write that down; it’d make a very powerful line…

The fifth book, however, would have to wait until she’s done with the anthology, no matter how much her fans complain. Let them read the new anthology. Let them extract the very essence of her work. In fact, why don’t they read the anthology she’s got out now? It spent three weeks on the New York Times Bestseller’s List. It may have been seventy-sixth at its peak, but let see them try to write a bestseller.

For a moment, she wasn’t paying attention to the words in the letter she was reading, so she starts over, reading the direct wording of her publicist, Bridget Burkly. Diana muses at how sharply her editor writes. Bridget does not include of ounce of fluff or trivialities; she just goes straight to business, quoting facts and making suggestions in such a way that one has the profound desire to take a deep breath after reading something composed by her. That’s not to say she’s abrupt. In reality, she’s a brilliant linguist; her sentences strictly coherent, making more points in one sentence than some make in a single paragraph and fitting more content into each paragraph than some can in fifteen pages. Bridget also has the unyielding habit of using Diana’s married name. Diana took her husband’s last name, Henderson, for all things but her writing, a small attempt to protect their identities. She doesn’t necessarily keep it a secret, but she uses her maiden name on the cover of all her books.

Plus, the name looks good on the cover of the books. Mimicking the style of mysteries or thrillers, the covers of Chronicles of Sonriso series feature a slight watery, oil painting-like background with Diana Owler embossed in brightly-colored, monochrome, serif font. As much as Diana prefers hardbacks, seeing her name in an array of colors on the paperback version covers of The Chronicles of Sonriso, placed side by side, never ceases to enchant her: the vibrant goldenrod on The Knight Sonriso, the metallic steel blue on The Long Reign of Sonriso I, and the warm crimson on Sonriso I in the War of Delcolm. For The Heirs of Sonriso I, Diana already has airy lavender-grey in mind.

For all other purposes: Christmas cards, personal letters, legal documents, and so on, Diana uses the surname Henderson. She is happily married to Corey, and is a bit of a traditionalist. He’s a good man. He has a steady income to support the kids when Diana’s book sales level off. The two had married when Diana was only twenty-two, but they had been in love for three years, and Diana had felt like she had found the man of her dreams. And everything was happily ever after. Well, for five years, they had been, within reason. Their two kids are a handful, to say the least, but nothing to be unexpected for young children. Diana, in the depths of her heart, wants one or two more, but she is careful to plan them more or less so that it won’t create a big interference with her writing.

Another advantage of marrying Corey right out of college was that there wasn’t the “random years” phase as a struggling writer. She’d never spent until three in the morning at some run-down coffee shop or old-fashioned diner smoking cigarettes and drinking “black-as-my-soul” coffee to relieve her writer’s block. For one, she is and has been religiously opposed to both nicotine and caffeine all her life. And it’s not as if she hadn’t spent until three in the morning in an old-fashioned diner, in throes of inspiration. Once, when she visited Manhattan for a book tour after her first anthology hit the Bestseller’s List, she did just that, drinking decaf coffee and eating a stale scone as she furiously scribbled down a poem about the beauty of Time Square. It was 1:00 AM, and the traffic was light, and she somehow had found herself in the very middle of the famous intersection. In retrospect, she couldn’t recall exactly why she had done it, but she spun twice in place, her eyes glazing over as the myriad of colored lights caused an almost psychedelic reaction in her brain that had left her feeling so euphoric that it took six napkins and a pen borrowed from a friendly waitress at a small diner called Nana’s to dull the high. The result was a poem that would never be published. Diana still has those napkins, stapled together, in one of her bottomless drawers of poem ideas scribbled on various pieces of paper or paper-like media.

The letter from Bridget was nothing more than a kind memo informing Diana about the success of three-book set in its first quarter. Her first anthology’s sale were holding steady. They had leveled off a lot quicker than Bridget had expected (or hoped), but the leveling off point was higher than expected, so she was rejoicing rather than panicking. It’s nice to have someone to do the worrying for you. All this of course was said in so many, though not too many, words.

Diana rather enjoyed reading Bridget’s writing. She remembered one time when Bridget had asked Diana to look at a short story she had written, just for kicks. Diana became deeply absorbed in analyzing the woman’s style. Diana’s critique had all but crushed the woman’s spirit. It had been too professional for the favor that was asked of her, a gaffe which Diana apologized for. She’d commented to her publicist that her writing was very forceful and pointed, but not poorly written. She regretted to tell her that the quality of work would never sell in the publishing world, but complimented her on the level of voice her work held. Diana always enjoyed being the critic, yet another pleasure that one would learn of when getting to know the woman.

Diana knows all too well that it is a hard act to be both the critic and the creator, but Diana blames it on her love of writing. Christopher often sends her the stories written during his spare time. None of them is quite good enough to publish, at least not well-developed enough, or sometimes a bit off-the-mark of professional work, but a very fun read in Diana’s opinion. It was through Christopher that Diana had found out she was a tough editor. In retrospect, Christopher turned out to be a ruthless proofreader, and Diana learned never to leave a comma out of place before sending him material to look at. They both soon learned to stick to responsive letters, which were often raw and much funnier than their polished works.

Being an editor, professional or otherwise, Diana decides to put on the back burner. Right now, she desperately needs to work on establishing herself. So far, she’s doing a fine job of transitioning into the world of bestselling authors. After she is done with that horrid yet delightful Sonriso series, and maybe after the kids are in or out of college, she’ll go back to school, work as a professor, and develop that analytical part of her brain. Working as a creative writing teacher would suit her just fine, but not yet, not until she has fully immersed herself in the literary world. “No distractions” needs to be her motto now. This new anthology is burning into her heart and there will be no time for thinking ahead until she really starts to face this collection. No distractions…

The clock chimes five o’clock and Diana goes into the kitchen to make dinner for the family. Tonight would be excellent for some homemade lasagna.

* * *

The artificial yellow lights shines upon Diana in her bed. She sits against the bed frame, fully awake, reading a printout of an untitled poem in one hand and gripping the neck of the modest, pink nightgown she’s wearing in the other, a displeased look upon her face. She looks at the clock. It’s nearly midnight. She lays the poem on her nightstand, but it slides off.

Diana looks to her right, seeing her husband fast asleep, his eyes closed and mouth straight. Diana softly brushes her hand against his thick, light brown hair. Diana lucked out in many ways with Corey. For one, they share many moral, ethical, and religious beliefs, which their respective families encouraged. Another is Corey’s thick hair, as shallow as it may be. Diana met Corey’s grandparents at her and Corey’s wedding. His grandfather had the same thick hair as Corey, though the elder’s was nearing a handsome shade of white. It’s something completely aesthetic, but one’s hair has become Diana’s guilty pleasure. Never one to pamper herself, her hair is usually nothing but naturally true, but, what is always ready for her use, under the bathroom sink, is a wide range of hair care products. For birthdays, anniversaries, reunions, and fancy occasions, Diana indulges in expensive conditioner. Not being a public figure, Diana has always allowed her wheat-blond hair grow out uninhibited… for a while. For the most part, at home, Diana’s hair seems unboisterously natural, but when she grants interviews about her books and for that occasional celebration, Diana knows full well how to achieve “shampoo commercial hair” as she calls it.

Corey dozes silently, breathing slowly, not snoring. Corey doesn’t snore. One of those silly maxims Diana’s mother told her when she was younger, as many mothers do: never marry a man who snores. Diana once humored herself with the thought that this contradicted one of the unspoken maxims of her mother: never share a bed with a man until one is married to him. Diana learned Corey was not a snorer when he fell asleep on the couch while Diana and her mother made wedding preparations. In his defense, he’d just gotten back from a business trip in Europe. Diana had almost forgotten he was there when she found him fast asleep, silent as a lamb.

Right now, Diana gives the smallest smile as she watches her resting husband. Corey is everything she wanted: dependable, loyal, family-oriented, faithful, and stable. As a young girl, Diana had watched her mother so many times, holding whichever of Diana’s siblings was the youngest, just rocking him or her to sleep. Years later, she still remembered that smile: almost a half-smile, but still genuine. It was the smile of someone full of warmth, not too hot, not too cold. Her mom often had that smile, and Diana knew she wanted it, too. Her school friends all talked about wanting children, but they also talked about working: being businesswomen, being lawyers, being doctors, just being anything but just a housewife. For a while, Diana dared not tell her friends that her only desire was to be a “housewife.” Luckily, she realized that writing was also a profession, not just a hobby. Diana always known she’d write. That was a given. What hadn’t clicked until then was that Diana never realized her mom’s “hobbies”—the gardening, the sewing, the nature walks—were different from a profession in writing. Her mom had not turned her nose when Diana expressed her desire to have a stay-at-home professional career. Her mom would never turn her nose at her eldest daughter. But Diana knew deep down in her mother’s heart was the desire for grandchildren, and beneath that outer desire, the legacy of traditional values that was held so dear in the Owler family. Corey’s family held those same values, which made their marriage quotably perfect.

The realization sweeps over Diana as it has so many times in her twenty-six years. She is her mother’s daughter: carrying on the family legacy without a glance back, yet still fulfilling the great potential God instilled in her. Many think that the two would counter each other: ambition and domesticity, but Diana found the harmony between them. Favoritism is tacitly forbidden within the family, but moderated pride is not, and many of Diana’s relatives: aunts, uncles, cousins, and in-laws all have great pride in the girl so petite on the outside yet so passionate on the inside. The words, “You’ve done well,” are spoken with meaning to her, and Diana accepts them graciously. It is no far cry to use the word “success” when speaking about Diana, no matter who you are.

Corey is everything Diana and her peers were looking for, being the right type of person to the exact extent he was trained by his family to be: the prize piece made by a potter’s hands… flawless. Well, relatively; Corey can be thickheaded at times and resistant to ask for help, but Diana thinks to herself every day how she landed the cream of the crop. Tonight, however, she gets the feeling that there’s something… unreal about him. No, she tells herself, I have felt the opposite feeling when I have looked at him. Diana reaches for the top drawer of her nightstand for her journal. Diana, finding herself confused by her own thoughts, reaches toward her comfort blanket of sorts. Pencil in hand, she lays the tip on paper, scribbles in the date, and writes, “I have no idea how to start this.” She pauses, but quickly scribbles: “I have no idea how to start this.” She writes this five times more, wondering why the words won’t come. The tried and true trick that she learned in eighth grade, which has yet to fail her, has… not succeeded this time. She puts the journal away, back in the drawer, her face devoid of emotion.

She curls up into bed, turns off the light, and falls asleep faster than usual.

Chapter 3