https://books2read.com/The-Twelve-Dates-of-Christmas
https://www.amazon.ca/Twelve-Dates-Christmas-Joan-Donaldson-Yarmey/dp/1772992518
https://books2read.com/Single-Bells
https://www.amazon.ca/Single-Bells-Joan-Donaldson-Yarmey/dp/0228628385
I am a writer who lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. I write fiction, non-fiction, short stories, and some poetry all set in Canada. My published fiction covers mystery, holiday romance, and Canadian historical novels for adults and young adults. My published non-fiction covers travel writing and a memoir. In my memoir, The Art of Growing Older, I talk about aging with attitude and how is it possible to live a good long life.
I don't send out my short stories to many magazines so have only had one published. The following is that story.
I was vacuuming the living room the day that my
husband Byron hung up the phone and announced that his literary agent, Ron
Higgins, had found a publisher for his novel.
“I've been telling you it was a great idea, Celia,” he said to me. “I just
had to find an agent who thought the same way and he had to find the right
publisher. They must think it will sell because they offered me a contract and an
advance based on just my query and synopsis.”
I was so happy that it finally
happened. I thought that now he could relax and enjoy the writing instead of getting
so worked up about all those rejection letters. I hated when he yelled and tore
the letters into pieces and threw them around the room.
When the contract came in the mail Byron read it out
to me. According to the contract he had to send the chapters as he finished
each of them to his agent who would edit them. When half the manuscript was
finished, Mr. Higgins would send it to the publisher to read. Byron signed the
papers and I brought out the bottle of wine I had bought for the occasion. We
had a drink to the millions of copies Byron was convinced the book was going to
sell. I didn't expect it to be that many but I secretly hoped that we could buy
our own home or take a vacation with his royalties. He told me to phone our
friends to come for a party the following evening to help him celebrate.
I made the phone calls and then worked hard the next
day making Byron's favourite appetizers, cleaning the house, and getting ready
for the party.
Our friends came and they all seemed to be having a
good time congratulating Byron. Everyone had a drink and I was circulating with
a tray of food when Byron
began talking loudly.
“Yes, I did send my idea out to a few other agents and
some publishers before I acquired my agent. He’s the one who found a publisher.
And those agents and publishers who turned me down are sure going to feel like
idiots when it’s a best seller. I’ll
have the last laugh then.”
“Is it a big publisher from Toronto or New York?” Someone
asked.
“No, it’s a small publisher in Vancouver. Of course I
got an advance. All good writers get advances.”
“Was it enough to buy a home in Mexico?”
“No, the advance wasn’t as big as Stephen King’s. But
this is just my first book. You can be sure that with the success of this one
larger publishing houses will be bidding to publish my next one.”
I couldn't take any more of it. I pulled him aside and
whispered that he was starting to sound like a pompous ass. He was aghast that
I would say such a thing.
“I am not. I’m just telling the truth. Besides, they
are all interested. This is as close as they will ever get to a famous
published author.”
“You’re not famous yet,” I told him.
“It’s just a matter of time.” He turned to the crowd.
“I’d like to propose a toast to my new book. When you read it you will be
impressed with my creativity.”
Everyone in the
crowd raised their glasses and dutifully toasted him. He then said that he
would sign their napkins because when he was as popular as Stephen King they could
tell their friends they knew him when he was a struggling writer, that he had
been their neighbour.
I worked part time in a drug store and had a small
home business making children's costumes. I used our spare bedroom as my sewing
room. One day as I had just finished sewing the first of fifteen dresses for a
dance group Byron came home early from work. He walked into my sewing room
carrying a box. He set it on the bed.
“What are you doing home?” I asked him.
“I went shopping today,” he said and left the room.
I looked at the box and then up at Byron as he came in
again carrying another box. He set it beside the first one.
“What’s in those?” I asked
as I wrapped the dress in plastic.
“They are part of my new computer,” he answered.
I was shocked. “What?” I asked
“I just bought a computer, a computer desk, printer,
paper, chair, and a bunch of supplies I need for my writing.”
I looked after our finances and I knew we couldn't
afford all these things. “We don’t
have the money,” I said. “How are you going to pay for it?”
Byron answered nonchalantly. “The store was giving a
$100 discount if you bring in your old computer so I took in my old laptop. The
rest I put on the credit card. The advance from my book will cover some of it.”
“But you only got $150.00 and ten percent of that went
to your agent,” I told him
“Don’t worry,” he scoffed. “I’ll get more when I
finish my manuscript and my agent gets it to the publisher. And with this new
computer that won’t take me very long.”
The house we rented was basementless and only had the
two bedrooms.
“Where are you going to put these?” I asked him.
“In here,” Byron said. “So get your stuff out. I need
the room.”
I was totally confused. “What?” I asked.
“You heard me. I have a book contract now. I am a bona
fide writer and I can’t write on an old
laptop at the kitchen table any more. I need a real office to do my writing.”
“But where will I put my sewing machine, my material,
my patterns,” I asked. I needed the space for my business.
“In the garage, throw them away, whatever. Just get
them out of here.” Byron left the room and I stood in shock. I didn't know what
to do.
When Byron returned with another box he dropped an
even bigger bombshell. “And I quit my job.”
“What?” That seemed to be my favourite word in this
conversation as I was having a hard time absorbing everything.
“I have to finish my manuscript.” Byron was beginning
to sound exasperated. “I can’t continue to work and get my writing done, too.”
I was really beginning to worry. “How are we going to
live, make our rent payments?” I asked. “I don’t
earn enough money with my part time job.”
Byron didn't seem to care. “You’ll have to get a second job or start working full time.”
“But what about my business? I won’t have time for my sewing.”
Byron really sounded disgusted as he waved his hand
around the room. “This isn’t a business. It’s hardly a hobby. It’s
time you started contributing some real money. Now get rid of this stuff so I
can set up my new office.” And with that he took some packets of paper out of one
of the boxes and handed the box to me. “This will help you get started. And
hurry up. I want to set up my office today.”
Byron left again and I slowly began to gather the
patterns and materials on the bed into a pile.
Byron returned and stopped in the doorway, an angry
look on his face. “What’s taking so long?” he demanded
I was in tears and could barely answer. “I don’t… What
will I…?”
Byron dropped the box on the floor. He grabbed my bolts
of material from the bed and threw them in the empty box. “I don’t have time to
wait while you have a hissy fit. Get busy. Everything has to go except the bed.
I’m keeping it so I have some privacy.”
I looked at him. “Privacy?”
“Yes. If I want to work into the night then I can lie
down when I’m tired and not be disturbed when you get up to go to work in the
morning.”
My sewing machine and material ended up in a corner of
the garage. I took the dress to my customer down the street and told her I was
sorry but I couldn't make the others as I had promised. I returned the deposit.
A week later I got a second part time job at a grocery
store and when I got home I opened the door of the spare room to let Byron
know.
Bryon was working on his novel on his new computer. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt me when I’m
working,” was all he said.
“Sorry, I just thought I would let you know that I won’t be home many evenings to make supper.”
Byron waved his hand and went back to work. I closed
the door.
For the first few months I thought everything was
going well. Byron would be at the computer when I got up in the morning and
working hard when I came home from work. I was just earning enough money to
keep ahead of the bills and I was hoping he would finish his manuscript soon
and find another job.
One day, though, I answered the phone and it was Ron
Higgins, Byron's agent. He wanted to speak with Bryon. I knocked on the bedroom
door and opened it. Byron immediately began yelling. “Would you quit
interrupting me? Haven’t I told you not to
talk to me when I am working. I lose my train of thought.”
I handed him the phone. “Your agent wants to talk with
you.”
Byron glared at me and grabbed the phone. He took a
deep breath then said pleasantly. “Hello Ron.”
He listened and I could see his face turning red. “Yes,
Ron. I know I am late with some chapters. I will get them to you by the end of
the week.”
When Byron hung up he said to me. “From now on, when you have
something to say to me, you write it on a piece of paper and slide it under the
door. I don’t have time for interruptions.” He threw the phone and me and
slammed the door.
That was the first of many phone calls that I answered
from Mr. Higgins. Apparently, Byron wasn't sending in chapters on time and he
wasn't answering Mr. Higgin's emails about them. Each time I would reassure Mr.
Higgins that I had given Byron his last message and then dutifully write down
the new message on a piece of paper and shove it under Byron's door.
My sister Sylvia lives in England. Before the contract
we'd keep in touch through emails and Facebook but Byron wouldn't let me in his
room to use the computer anymore. And I had to cancel my cell phone so I
couldn't text her. With just my two part time pay cheques coming in we only had
a landline and Internet service for Byron. Long distance phone calls cost
extra. Sylvia wasn't any better off than me financially and couldn't afford to
call me either. One day she did phone and asked if Byron would let us email
each other twice a week. I didn't think he would agree but she insisted on
sending him an email to ask.
I was dusting the living room after work one day when
Byron stomped
down the hall, his housecoat flapping behind. I wrinkled my nose at the smell
of beer and body odor as he neared.
“I printed this off for you,” he yelled, throwing a
piece of paper at me.
I cringed. He never talked to me in a decent voice
anymore.
I hadn’t liked the changes in my husband while he’d
struggled to become a published writer and I certainly didn’t like the person
he’d become since getting his book contract. There were many times I wished
he’d never gotten that contract and, even some, when I wished I’d never married
him.
“I want you to come into my office now and email your
sister back.”
In his office there were empty beer cans, plates with
leftover food, and full ashtrays everywhere. It smelled as bad as he did. On
the floor I saw the many notes I’d pushed under the door. I picked some up and
asked if he even read them.
“I don't have time,” he said crossly.
Byron gestured to the office chair and told me to sit
down. I sat and asked him what he wanted me to say.
“What do you think? Tell her not to send any more
emails.”
In my agitation, I accidently hit the Caps Lock key
and started to type in capital letters.
“Capital letters means you’re shouting, Dummy,” Byron
laughed harshly. Then he sobered.
“That’s not a bad idea. You’re going to type the message in capital letters.
That way your sister will definitely get the message not to do it again. I
don’t need the hassle of receiving stupid emails.”
“I don’t want to shout at my sister,” I said.
“If you don’t
do it, I will,” Byron threatened.
So I typed Sylvia's message in capital letters then
left his office in tears.
I was tired and hungry and decided to make something
quick and easy for supper. As I put the lid on the pot with the pasta, Byron
entered the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. “Is that all the beer?”
he asked peering in.
“I guess so.”
“Is it too much to ask that there be beer in the
fridge?” He grabbed a can and opened it.
“I bought a dozen yesterday.”
“Are you saying I drink too much?”
Byron had claimed other writers like Dashiell Hammett
and Raymond Chandler drank while writing and it made them more productive. From
the number of phone calls from his agent about late chapters, I guessed it
wasn’t working for him.
“What’s for dinner?” He lifted the lid from the pot.
“Macaroni and beans,” I answered.
“Geez.” He slammed down the lid. “Can’t you fix anything
decent?”
“Hey, I worked all day.” I was getting angry at his
attitude.
“Are you insinuating I didn’t?”
I sighed and wished, again, that I’d never married
him.
The next evening I put oil on to heat for French fries
then went to have a quick shower. It felt so good I spent more time under the
soothing water than I’d intended. When I stepped out of the shower, I could
smell smoke. I donned my housecoat and hurried to the kitchen. The oil had
caught fire and it had spread to the cupboards and curtains. The living room
and hallway were filling with smoke.
I coughed as I warned Byron, then rushed next door to
call the fire department. I returned but Byron was not out in the yard. When
the trucks arrived, I hurried over.
“My husband’s still in there,” I cried.
The firemen tried entering the house but were driven
back by the heat and smoke. An hour later the fire was out and an ambulance had
taken Byron’s body away.
“I set the oil on the burner and went for a shower,” I
explained to the police officer who was questioning me. “When I came out there
was smoke everywhere.”
“Then what did you do?” she asked.
“I ran next door to call the fire department,” I said
as I dabbed my eyes.
“Did you warn your husband?”
“Oh, yes. I shouted at him,” I said, thinking of the word FIRE I’d printed three times in capital letters on a piece of paper and shoved under his door.
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