Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Friends / Friendship
- Published: 01/13/2021
My Collaborator
Born 1947, M, from Oceanside, United StatesMy Collaborator
I first met Mary when the both of us were sixteen, and I was trying to be a writer. It was on a Saturday morning at the town library, where I had gone to work on my book. She was a volunteer page.
I was sitting at one of the tables with a stack of white-lined notebook paper next to me and a pen in my hand, trying to get the words for my first novel down on paper; when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl pushing one of the book carts heading my way.
Just as her cart got abreast of me, she stopped pushing, and said in a kind of joking way, “What are you doing, writing a book?”
“Yep!” I replied.
“Whoa!” I heard her say, “What’s it about?”
When I looked up to answer her, I thought whoa, as well! She was cross-eyed! I had never met anyone who was cross-eyed before, which was why I didn’t answer her right away. So she asked again, “So what’s it about?”
Blinking back to the moment, I replied, “It’s about a young college guy who meets the girl of his dreams.”
Before I could say anything else, she asked, “Is there a lot of sex in it?”
I felt my face grow warm. I didn’t know how to answer her. If one of my guy friends had asked me that, I’d have no problem answering him, but a girl . . ?
“I don’t know yet,” I told her. “I just started it.”
Continuing to smile, she replied, “Okay, but I’d like to read it sometime, and maybe I’ll let you read some of my poems.”
A thrill shot through me; a fellow writer! “So what kind of poems do you write?”
“Mostly they’re about what goes on in my life.” Her smile faded a little as she continued, “A lot of people probably wouldn’t find them very interesting, but to me, they’re perfect!”
They probably were, I thought, as I looked up into her crooked green eyes. Even though it was hard to know exactly where she was looking, I found myself liking her confidence.
“Well,” she said, sounding perky again, “I’ve got to get these books put away. Maybe I’ll see you next weekend. In the mean time, good luck with your story.” And with that, she continued to push her cart until she disappeared around the corner.
I watched until I couldn’t see her any longer, and thought—I wonder what her poems are like? But then I thought, forget about it. I should be getting back to work. Except now, the words didn’t seem to want to come as easily as they had before. Which was why, after several frustrating minutes, I jammed my stack of pages back into my shoulder bag and headed for the door. But all week, I kept thinking about my cross-eyed friend, her red hair, the freckles on her nose, her genuine friendly smile. I couldn’t wait for Saturday, hoping I’d see her again.
“So how is your book coming along?” she asked when she saw me sitting at the same table the following Saturday.
“It’s going great!” I told her. And it was. More than once during the week, I found myself creating sentences and paragraphs with amazing ease.
That’s when she surprised me by asking, “Can I read what you’ve done so far?”
I felt my stomach tighten. I wasn’t sure that would be a good idea. Suppose she didn’t like what I had written?
“So can I?” she asked again.
Finally, I relented. “I guess that would be okay . . . as long as you let me see some of your poems.”
“No problem,” she replied. “I have a few of them up at the front desk. After I put away these books, I’ll get them for you.”
“And I’ll give you some of my pages. They’re numbered so you won’t have to worry about mixing them up.”
“Great!” she said. “See you in a little bit.” Then she took off again.
“Here,” she said a little bit later, handing me a spiral-bound notebook—the kind we use in English class.
I took the notebook then handed her four of the six chapters of my book I had written so far. “This isn’t everything, but it should give you an idea of what my story is like.”
I almost hoped she would stop and read them right then, but I also knew, she had more books to shelve. So I watched her go while I put her notebook of poems into my shoulder bag, and then got up to leave. I didn’t want to try and read them right there in the library. Suppose I didn’t like them? What would I say? I waited until I got to the nearby Dairy Queen before pulling out the notebook and beginning to read.
The first thing I noticed was how short they were. Not exactly Haikus, but pretty darn close. And then I started to read them and changed my mind. They weren’t like Haikus at all; they were more like mini stories. Each was about something that happened in her everyday life: like walking her dog and having it chase after a squirrel, or finding the previous day’s trash strewn all over the driveway, because some neighbor’s pet got into it. Then there were several poems about her interactions with friends at school.
All her poems were written in very neat longhand; and unlike the poems we read in English class, which were often hard to figure out, these were easy. I was really impressed! I just hoped she like my story, as well.
She did, but in a different way.
When she gave me my pages back, a sick feeling settled on my stomach. My pages were covered with red marks. “What are all these marks for?” I asked, feeling as if I had just failed a huge test in English.
Smiling, she replied, “Those are editorial marks. That’s how editors correct manuscripts.” Looking from her to the pages, all I could think was my story was ruined! But then she said, “I really liked your story a lot.” I stared at her, not sure if she was just trying to be nice or what? “It sounded really grownup.”
“If that’s the case, then why all these red marks?”
She leaned her head a little to one side, which was something she did often. She told me it helped her focus her gaze. “You needed help with you punctuation and grammar.”
“I did?” I said, looking back at my pages, depression settling over me again.
After a moment, she replied, “I can type them for you, if you want.”
I stared at her surprised, “You could?”
“Sure! I type with all ten fingers.”
I challenged her. “But how do you know I can’t type?”
“Can you?”
Not looking at her, I mumbled, “Not really.”
“So, what do you say?”
I thought about her offer a moment. It sure would help. “Okay,” I told her, but then asked, “Do you want these back the way they are so you can type them, or do you need me to make the changes first?”
“First make the corrections I suggested, then I’ll type them.”
Which is what we did.
Over the next six months, we worked together, mostly on Saturdays after her job putting up books in the library. After she’d mark up my pages, I’d rewrite them and then, she’d type them into her computer. Most of the time, I was happy with her corrections and suggestions for changes, but we did have a few disagreements, one of which was whether or not there should be a lot of heavy-duty sex in my story. She wanted more; I wanted less. I know that sounds weird, me being a guy and all, but I wasn’t sure I could even write a sex scene. In the end, we made my story sexy without being overly graphic.
“So where do you think we should send our book?” I asked, while we were finishing up the last chapter.
“Our book?” she replied, her green eyes widening in surprise.
“Why not?” I replied. “After all, if it hadn’t been for you, my book would never have turned out even half as good as it did.”
“I was just glad I could help.”
“And you did a lot! You’ve been like both a teacher and a collaborator throughout the whole process.”
“In that case,” she said, pulling out a piece of paper. “I found this in a magazine.”
It was an advertisement for a writing contest. They were looking for books written by anyone under eighteen. “You think we have a chance?” I asked her.
“I don’t see why not.”
So, following the submission rules, we sent along the first fifty pages to the contest, plus the fee, and then waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . and . . .
Meanwhile, Mary helped me work on another story. She also began to show me how to type with all ten fingers.
Finally, one day, an envelope arrived in the mail. It was from the magazine that had sponsored the contest. We opened it together.
The first thing we found was a check for a hundred dollars made out to the both of us. I’ll have to admit, I was ecstatic until I read the letter that came with the check. It said we had gotten first honorable mention.
“Don’t look so glum,” she said, smiling. “First honorable mention means we impressed at least one of the judges.”
“I guess so,” I mumbled, as I glanced once more at the check, wishing it could have represented more than just an honorable mention.
Patting me on the shoulder, she said, “Next time, we’ll do better.”
Surprised, I looked at her. “You mean you want to help me again?”
“Why not!”
Which she did.
With her help, the next time I sent one of my stories to a contest, it won third place. Then I entered a contest with a children’s story I did all by myself and won first place. It even ended up appearing in the national magazine that had sponsored the contest. I used the five hundred dollars I received to take Mary and her parents out to one of those fancy adult restaurants. You know—the kind with no prices on the menu.
Over the next few years, we remained writing buddies, but not necessarily girlfriend or boyfriend. Then life sent us in opposite directions; Mary went to college on the east coast, I went to college on the west coast, and became a surfer and an English teacher, with three relatively successful novels under my belt. Mary became an archeologist, traveling the world and going on digs.
As our careers grew, our conversations, both oral and written, became fewer and further in between, until they stopped altogether. But I never ceased thinking about her. Every time I sat down at my computer, images of her crooked eyes and red hair flooded my mind. It always made me wish I could at least hear her voice one more time.
And then I received something even better.
It was a dark and stormy September night. I was in my office correcting student papers, when I heard a tentative knock on the door. When I opened it, I was both stunned and elated to find Mary standing there. Hugging and kissing her, I told her how happy I was to see her again. In fact, I was so happy, I didn’t even notice how wet she was, or that her eyes weren’t crooked any longer.
“What happened?” I finally asked, pointing.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
After we each took a seat, Mary went on to tell me about how, on one of her digs, she fell into a dry well and hit her head. After her people rescued her, they told her she wasn’t cross-eyed any longer. She didn’t believe them, until she saw for herself. Everyone told her that it was impossible, but obviously, it wasn’t.
“No adverse affects?” I asked her.
“None whatsoever.”
“So how long are you here for?”
For a moment, she seemed to hesitate. I was certain she was going to tell me that she had to leave right away. Instead, she said, “As long as it takes you to help me write my book.”
“You’re writing a book?” I asked, both surprised and overjoyed.
“Actually, it’s my journal. I wrote down just about everything that happened to me while on my various digs. I want to turn it into a novel. I figured if anyone could help me, it would be you.”
The grin that spread across my face went from ear to ear. “I’ll be more than happy to help you,” I told her.
Later, after some pizza and two bottles of wine, we collaborated once more . . . but not on her journal. Nine months later, our collaboration resulted in the birth of our twin sons.
If you’re wondering, neither of them is cross-eyed.
My Collaborator(Tom Di Roma)
My Collaborator
I first met Mary when the both of us were sixteen, and I was trying to be a writer. It was on a Saturday morning at the town library, where I had gone to work on my book. She was a volunteer page.
I was sitting at one of the tables with a stack of white-lined notebook paper next to me and a pen in my hand, trying to get the words for my first novel down on paper; when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl pushing one of the book carts heading my way.
Just as her cart got abreast of me, she stopped pushing, and said in a kind of joking way, “What are you doing, writing a book?”
“Yep!” I replied.
“Whoa!” I heard her say, “What’s it about?”
When I looked up to answer her, I thought whoa, as well! She was cross-eyed! I had never met anyone who was cross-eyed before, which was why I didn’t answer her right away. So she asked again, “So what’s it about?”
Blinking back to the moment, I replied, “It’s about a young college guy who meets the girl of his dreams.”
Before I could say anything else, she asked, “Is there a lot of sex in it?”
I felt my face grow warm. I didn’t know how to answer her. If one of my guy friends had asked me that, I’d have no problem answering him, but a girl . . ?
“I don’t know yet,” I told her. “I just started it.”
Continuing to smile, she replied, “Okay, but I’d like to read it sometime, and maybe I’ll let you read some of my poems.”
A thrill shot through me; a fellow writer! “So what kind of poems do you write?”
“Mostly they’re about what goes on in my life.” Her smile faded a little as she continued, “A lot of people probably wouldn’t find them very interesting, but to me, they’re perfect!”
They probably were, I thought, as I looked up into her crooked green eyes. Even though it was hard to know exactly where she was looking, I found myself liking her confidence.
“Well,” she said, sounding perky again, “I’ve got to get these books put away. Maybe I’ll see you next weekend. In the mean time, good luck with your story.” And with that, she continued to push her cart until she disappeared around the corner.
I watched until I couldn’t see her any longer, and thought—I wonder what her poems are like? But then I thought, forget about it. I should be getting back to work. Except now, the words didn’t seem to want to come as easily as they had before. Which was why, after several frustrating minutes, I jammed my stack of pages back into my shoulder bag and headed for the door. But all week, I kept thinking about my cross-eyed friend, her red hair, the freckles on her nose, her genuine friendly smile. I couldn’t wait for Saturday, hoping I’d see her again.
“So how is your book coming along?” she asked when she saw me sitting at the same table the following Saturday.
“It’s going great!” I told her. And it was. More than once during the week, I found myself creating sentences and paragraphs with amazing ease.
That’s when she surprised me by asking, “Can I read what you’ve done so far?”
I felt my stomach tighten. I wasn’t sure that would be a good idea. Suppose she didn’t like what I had written?
“So can I?” she asked again.
Finally, I relented. “I guess that would be okay . . . as long as you let me see some of your poems.”
“No problem,” she replied. “I have a few of them up at the front desk. After I put away these books, I’ll get them for you.”
“And I’ll give you some of my pages. They’re numbered so you won’t have to worry about mixing them up.”
“Great!” she said. “See you in a little bit.” Then she took off again.
“Here,” she said a little bit later, handing me a spiral-bound notebook—the kind we use in English class.
I took the notebook then handed her four of the six chapters of my book I had written so far. “This isn’t everything, but it should give you an idea of what my story is like.”
I almost hoped she would stop and read them right then, but I also knew, she had more books to shelve. So I watched her go while I put her notebook of poems into my shoulder bag, and then got up to leave. I didn’t want to try and read them right there in the library. Suppose I didn’t like them? What would I say? I waited until I got to the nearby Dairy Queen before pulling out the notebook and beginning to read.
The first thing I noticed was how short they were. Not exactly Haikus, but pretty darn close. And then I started to read them and changed my mind. They weren’t like Haikus at all; they were more like mini stories. Each was about something that happened in her everyday life: like walking her dog and having it chase after a squirrel, or finding the previous day’s trash strewn all over the driveway, because some neighbor’s pet got into it. Then there were several poems about her interactions with friends at school.
All her poems were written in very neat longhand; and unlike the poems we read in English class, which were often hard to figure out, these were easy. I was really impressed! I just hoped she like my story, as well.
She did, but in a different way.
When she gave me my pages back, a sick feeling settled on my stomach. My pages were covered with red marks. “What are all these marks for?” I asked, feeling as if I had just failed a huge test in English.
Smiling, she replied, “Those are editorial marks. That’s how editors correct manuscripts.” Looking from her to the pages, all I could think was my story was ruined! But then she said, “I really liked your story a lot.” I stared at her, not sure if she was just trying to be nice or what? “It sounded really grownup.”
“If that’s the case, then why all these red marks?”
She leaned her head a little to one side, which was something she did often. She told me it helped her focus her gaze. “You needed help with you punctuation and grammar.”
“I did?” I said, looking back at my pages, depression settling over me again.
After a moment, she replied, “I can type them for you, if you want.”
I stared at her surprised, “You could?”
“Sure! I type with all ten fingers.”
I challenged her. “But how do you know I can’t type?”
“Can you?”
Not looking at her, I mumbled, “Not really.”
“So, what do you say?”
I thought about her offer a moment. It sure would help. “Okay,” I told her, but then asked, “Do you want these back the way they are so you can type them, or do you need me to make the changes first?”
“First make the corrections I suggested, then I’ll type them.”
Which is what we did.
Over the next six months, we worked together, mostly on Saturdays after her job putting up books in the library. After she’d mark up my pages, I’d rewrite them and then, she’d type them into her computer. Most of the time, I was happy with her corrections and suggestions for changes, but we did have a few disagreements, one of which was whether or not there should be a lot of heavy-duty sex in my story. She wanted more; I wanted less. I know that sounds weird, me being a guy and all, but I wasn’t sure I could even write a sex scene. In the end, we made my story sexy without being overly graphic.
“So where do you think we should send our book?” I asked, while we were finishing up the last chapter.
“Our book?” she replied, her green eyes widening in surprise.
“Why not?” I replied. “After all, if it hadn’t been for you, my book would never have turned out even half as good as it did.”
“I was just glad I could help.”
“And you did a lot! You’ve been like both a teacher and a collaborator throughout the whole process.”
“In that case,” she said, pulling out a piece of paper. “I found this in a magazine.”
It was an advertisement for a writing contest. They were looking for books written by anyone under eighteen. “You think we have a chance?” I asked her.
“I don’t see why not.”
So, following the submission rules, we sent along the first fifty pages to the contest, plus the fee, and then waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . and . . .
Meanwhile, Mary helped me work on another story. She also began to show me how to type with all ten fingers.
Finally, one day, an envelope arrived in the mail. It was from the magazine that had sponsored the contest. We opened it together.
The first thing we found was a check for a hundred dollars made out to the both of us. I’ll have to admit, I was ecstatic until I read the letter that came with the check. It said we had gotten first honorable mention.
“Don’t look so glum,” she said, smiling. “First honorable mention means we impressed at least one of the judges.”
“I guess so,” I mumbled, as I glanced once more at the check, wishing it could have represented more than just an honorable mention.
Patting me on the shoulder, she said, “Next time, we’ll do better.”
Surprised, I looked at her. “You mean you want to help me again?”
“Why not!”
Which she did.
With her help, the next time I sent one of my stories to a contest, it won third place. Then I entered a contest with a children’s story I did all by myself and won first place. It even ended up appearing in the national magazine that had sponsored the contest. I used the five hundred dollars I received to take Mary and her parents out to one of those fancy adult restaurants. You know—the kind with no prices on the menu.
Over the next few years, we remained writing buddies, but not necessarily girlfriend or boyfriend. Then life sent us in opposite directions; Mary went to college on the east coast, I went to college on the west coast, and became a surfer and an English teacher, with three relatively successful novels under my belt. Mary became an archeologist, traveling the world and going on digs.
As our careers grew, our conversations, both oral and written, became fewer and further in between, until they stopped altogether. But I never ceased thinking about her. Every time I sat down at my computer, images of her crooked eyes and red hair flooded my mind. It always made me wish I could at least hear her voice one more time.
And then I received something even better.
It was a dark and stormy September night. I was in my office correcting student papers, when I heard a tentative knock on the door. When I opened it, I was both stunned and elated to find Mary standing there. Hugging and kissing her, I told her how happy I was to see her again. In fact, I was so happy, I didn’t even notice how wet she was, or that her eyes weren’t crooked any longer.
“What happened?” I finally asked, pointing.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”
After we each took a seat, Mary went on to tell me about how, on one of her digs, she fell into a dry well and hit her head. After her people rescued her, they told her she wasn’t cross-eyed any longer. She didn’t believe them, until she saw for herself. Everyone told her that it was impossible, but obviously, it wasn’t.
“No adverse affects?” I asked her.
“None whatsoever.”
“So how long are you here for?”
For a moment, she seemed to hesitate. I was certain she was going to tell me that she had to leave right away. Instead, she said, “As long as it takes you to help me write my book.”
“You’re writing a book?” I asked, both surprised and overjoyed.
“Actually, it’s my journal. I wrote down just about everything that happened to me while on my various digs. I want to turn it into a novel. I figured if anyone could help me, it would be you.”
The grin that spread across my face went from ear to ear. “I’ll be more than happy to help you,” I told her.
Later, after some pizza and two bottles of wine, we collaborated once more . . . but not on her journal. Nine months later, our collaboration resulted in the birth of our twin sons.
If you’re wondering, neither of them is cross-eyed.
- Share this story on
- 11
Gerald R Gioglio
01/27/2021Tom, This Jersey boy thoroughly enjoyed your story...especially the twist at the end. I have t say I was rooting for them to collaborate on that other level
Reply
COMMENTS (2)