Better Read than Dead — Meryl A. H. Franzos

Josh and I had just pried a large plywood sheet off the cottage wall when we were hit with a wave of dust and the eye-watering odor of rodent urine that was so concentrated, it was essentially pure ammonia. Smelling salts sure to revive even the swooniest of Victorian ladies. The sights weren’t much better either. The bats of pink fiberglass had so many tunnels and furrows, it looked like an ant farm cross section. Walnut husks, bits of shredded nesting detritus, and torrents upon torrents of shriveled black droppings scattered on the floor. We thought we had a few mice. What we had was a full on infestation. The cask of Amontillado now unsealed, we scampered outdoors to avoid the tomb toxins and regroup.

New plan. Get a dumpster, rip everything out. As I pulled up my phone to look up my dumpster guy, I noticed I had a few emails. Josh was still rambling about the infestation. Pull everything out until we see clean insulation... This is going to cost even more now... DISGOSTING... Set it all on fire... I nodded and said uh huh uh huh while I quick checked said emails, sure that I would see promotional offers I could quickly delete. (a clean inbox is a clean life, amirite.) Instead, a notification from Submittable caught my eye. The email read, “Hello Meryl, We’ll accept ‘The Gallerist’ for publication...” I squealed and shoved my phone in his face. Words like “reject, pass, decline, and unfortunately” were more commonplace for me. Never “accept.” Josh’s eyes grew watery as he read the text of the letter. Finally, he looked at me with a proud smile. I think he pressed his forehead against mine and the rasp of demolition and rodent grit on our skin wasn’t nearly as tangible as our joy.

It’s been a long road of rejection. As I sit and reflect upon it all, it’s also been a long road of me hyping up this moment to an unattainable fantasy. There are things in life I’ve put on a pedestal. Or I’ve believed that attaining certain things would be instantly transformative. But rarely does reality exceed an expectation that’s been allowed to brew out of control for years. Take sex for instance... And I’m a little embarrassed to own to this, but here it rips. I waited. I saved myself for marriage. By the time I was a twenty-three year old bride, sex was so far up on that pedestal, I could barely see it.

Expectation===> I imagined I would wear some ridiculous white virginal lingerie and my husband and I would poetically read Song of Solomon to each other. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep evenly shorn. Thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks. Thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from mount Gilead. Burning candles everywhere, like Phantom of the Opera. I don’t know. A hair metal ballad by Mr. Big would be playing or something. An electric guitar wails when we climaxed together. I would be a different person afterwards. Good old-fashioned Christian fun times.

Reality===> In 2003, there were no candles allowed in the log cabin honeymoon suite of The Shack: Country Inn and Christian Conference Center. I have blocked out if I made my first husband read Song of Solomon, but if he did, I guarantee you, he did it stupidly on purpose and not at all tenderly like a romantic poet. When it came time for sex, we probably awkwardly approached each other like luchadores initiating a grapple. There was no simultaneous (or singular) climaxing, either. So let’s just smear the lens of memory and tastefully pan away to the hotel’s crucifix nightlight until it is just an indistinct yellow bokeh.

Okay, enough of my cringy Aaron Spelling tv drama and born again Christian influenced sexual expectations and back to how I unattainably hyped up my publishing expectations.

Writing Expectation===> my stories were brilliant enough to be immediately picked up by the journals that were a tier (or two, but no more) below the New Yorker. Like, all these years editors have been publishing other stories to pass the time while they waited for my brilliance to hit the scene. Then, with my first publication in print, a literary agent would see it and get me on the phone—Just brilliant, darling! The only thing your story needed was more cowbell. I must represent you. Oh! You have a novel? Even better. I’ll help you edit it down and sell it for one bazillion dollars! [insert eye roll here]

I am guilty. Often instead of doing, my imagination goes into hyper drive, imagining how good something will be. It will be glorious one day. And when that big day actually arrives and I am less than perfect, and/or all my expectations fall flat for one reason or another, I have always felt like a fool. Wondering why I didn’t just do it earlier. Get it over with. Why didn’t I just wear the dress instead of saving it? What exactly was I saving by not having sex before marriage? My soul? [insert maniacal laughter here] So much saving. That seems to be a common theme in Christianity—saving things for husbands, the afterlife. But I actually think there needs to be less saving, dreaming, preaching, more doing. Get your hands dirty. Have more sex. More fun. More mistakes. More opportunities to learn. And subsequently, more opportunities to get better. Hell, if anything, there are also more opportunities to be forgiven.

Writing Reality====> There are tons of fantastic writers out there, and they’ve paid their dues. They have networks and communities. The top tier magazines don’t let you in as an unknown without previous publishing credits. I am not a unique snowflake, and I am only just beginning to pay my dues. My short story, The Gallerist, was accepted for publication by a small online journal called Litbreak Magazine and I’m very honored they choose my writing. Read it here.

It was easy. Sweet. Kind. Quick. Poetic and unforgettable. Everything my first experience with sex wasn’t. Litbreak Magazine was the perfect partner. Alas, I can only be published there once, but it was enough to wet my palate. So expect more from me. A lot more. Because I’m going to be wanton, promiscuous, insatiable with any publication that will have me. That’s right. You heard it here first. I’m going to be a literary slut.