Blank

by Zibby Owens

My mother, Joan, was a character, deeply consumed with her own mishigas.

Her two chihuahuas were always scampering after her, my stepfather, Seymour, not too far behind.

After seventeen years together, I knew which “buttons” of his to avoid pushing.

His blue eyes, now closed, were paired with seriously long and highly enviable eyelashes that our son, Max, had inherited—along with his dimples. Not that Ethan had smiled much lately.

My novel was three years overdue. Years! How could I possibly follow up Poppies with something I was proud of?

“A slam dunk from a debut author,” claimed Vanity Fair. “Pippa Jones is the voice of a generation!”

It was enough for my book to earn out its admittedly meager advance and start paying me “royalties,” a few cents for every book sold, which really added up. It added up enough, that is, for me to finally pay for highlights instead of dipping into Ethan’s savings from his career as a child actor, a rapidly draining pot.

But my bespectacled, tattooed New York editor, Sidonie, had been truly over the moon from day one.

Sidonie and her wife, the Australian guitarist Jade, had sat in the front row of the premiere.

But that’s what happens in publishing. Today’s darling quickly becomes tomorrow’s doorstop.

It wasn’t fair that talent didn’t equate success, that some wildly popular authors weren’t the best at their craft, whereas some gifted novelists sold, like, two copies of their book. To their parents.

Poppies disappeared from the list like a one-night stand slinking out the door the next morning, still buckling his belt.

But boy, was I a sucker for wallpaper. Turned out I wasn’t the only one obsessed. My 710K followers watched my every move. I didn’t tell anyone it was me.

Not Ethan, not my kids. Not even Kelly, Gabriela, and Josie, my three best friends from college. We still talked all the time and got together once a month for virtual book club. It was the only thing that made me feel like me when every other part of me was wrapped up in being a wife, mom, daughter, nonwriting author, and former big deal. Who else was I? Apparently, a witty luxury-home connoisseur who could spot a four-bedroom with space for a powder room from a mile away.

Kelly, Gabriela, Josie, and I had found each other in the school newspaper office freshman year at Bluestone University. We’d all wanted to be writers back then.

Publishing a blank novel would be a commentary on the literary world. I could say that I was addressing the reader’s almost nonexistent attention span.

“What’s Operation Bestseller?” I asked. Michael just smirked. “We know exactly how to make a book hit the bestseller list. It’s just a matter of which one we decide to push. And, Pippa, today is your book’s lucky day.” See?! This was what drove me nuts! He’d literally picked my book to be a bestseller! I knew the publishing system was somewhat rigged.