After a short break from the Halls of Pandemonium challenge, I’m back!!! Don’t tell J.M. Gooding, but Kira’s prompts have been my favorite of all. If you have read through my previous entries for the challenge, you may recognize my muse, the star of Disney’s animated classic, Cinderella. She’s a little sassy, crushes on my male main characters, and forces me to face the music when it comes to my writing. Today, however, things are changing…
After Careful Consideration…
She’s visited me multiple times this month. Glitter, pixels, glass slippers—an annoying reminder that dreams only come true for those of us who are fairytale characters adapted by the Walt Disney Corporation.
Quite frankly, I’m sick of Cindy. I didn’t even ask her to be my muse. She just… gave herself the job because my mom’s nostalgia manifested her into my subconscious.
I’m thinking it’s time to cut the cord.
Inspired by my latest query rejection email, I close the blank document I’ve been staring at all afternoon and pull up Gmail.
Wait, how is this going to work? Cindy doesn’t have Gmail. I have no idea how to summon her. Maybe I need to sing in my best soprano? Click my heels three times and say, “Bippity boppity boo?”
Frustrated, I throw my head back against the sad, worn-out couch and close my eyes. It’s been raining for days, and my depression has gone into overdrive. My kids are fighting over their video game. The dog is barking at the Amazon delivery driver.
And I’m just me. A wannabe author who can’t convince an agent to sign me.
Grabbing my fountain pen, I pull out my big-ass drafting notebook and start a letter to Cindy.
After careful consideration…
The pen pauses, hovering over the college-ruled page as the words from my most recent full manuscript rejection float in my vision.
“While I enjoyed your submission, I didn’t find myself obsessed enough to take this on.”
Who am I kidding?
It’s me—I’m the problem.
I shouldn’t be writing my muse’s pink slip. I should write my own resignation letter.
My knuckles are now white from death-gripping the red fountain pen, and my rogue teardrops dampen the paper. Damn it. I’ve cried too much over these prompts. With a big, ugly sniffle that causes my dog’s muppet ears to perk up, I steel myself to write my goodbyes to my half-baked writing career.
But as I continue the first line, something strange happens. Pixie dust wraps around my pen, the ink flowing golden instead of black. I shake my head. Blink. And like a woman possessed by Disney’s proprietary magic, I write my resignation.
Except, it ends up more like a manifesto.
“After careful consideration, I regret to inform you that I am done waiting to be chosen. I have decided to move forward with my life. Too many joyful moments have passed me by due to refreshing my inbox and overanalyzing social media posts. While I’ve learned a lot about myself in my pursuit of external validation, I find that I have outgrown my current role as a people-pleaser.
It has become clear that my interests and those of the “current trends” are not quite as aligned as I had hoped. Quite frankly, I am not obsessed enough with the idea of attempting to write M/M hockey romances or cookie-cutter thrillers just to secure a mediocre midlist placement on big box bookshelves. I find myself struggling to connect with the concept of sacrificing my sanity and well-being to pursue the mythical “bestseller” BookTok influencer status.
As for my future endeavors, who knows? I like to do weird things, like singing Taylor Swift loudly in the car to annoy my children and working on Granny crafts while listening to The Lord of the Rings audiobooks (map props to Andy Serkis’s voice acting). I’m so ADHD that I forget to take my meds. I listen to podcasts on 2x speed because I can’t absorb the words if they’re spoken normally. I dance like no one’s watching, even when people are watching. I secretly delight in the fact that, though I feel like “just a mom” who has made nothing of herself, my husband still simps for me like he did when we were acne-ridden teenagers.
Long story short, I’m no stranger to blazing my own trails. Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe it’s time for me to choose myself. To choose my community. To make room at the table for all who are constantly told, “You can’t sit with us.”
For months, I’ve believed I needed someone from the industry to put a big, shiny gold star on my work. On me.
But I’ve outgrown the need for permission.
I am weird. It will happen again. Feel free to inquire with me in the future if you decide to add ‘quirky chaos goblin’ to your wishlist. In the meantime, I’ll be here, living my best life.
Sincerely,
Hallie J.”
“Ah, it’s a little snarky, but it’s effective!”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of her chipper voice.
“Cindy! What the hell? Ever heard of a little thing called ‘giving a head’s up’ before you just materialize on someone’s couch?”
In a gesture more fairy-godmother-ish than princess-ish, Cinderella places an animated hand on my knee. At this point, I’ve given up trying to figure out how she can touch me, but I can’t touch her.
“Listen, Halsey,” she says, a look of relief in her unblinking eyes. “I was worried you were going to quit writing. Or worse, fire me!”
My cheeks flame red. “Oh, no, Cindy. I could never fire you.”
“Ah, thank Godmother.”
“So, uh, have you come to tell me to stop procrastinating on my novel again?”
“Actually,” Cindy says tentatively, twisting her hands in her skirts. “I’ve come to say… I think it’s time for me to move on.”
“Oh, really?” I feign disappointment, despite the urge in my bones to get up and do a happy dance.
“Yes, Halsey. You’ve just proven with your little piece here,” she taps the page, smearing the ink, “that you know deep down who you are as a writer. You are one of a kind.”
“Well,” I chuckle. “I don’t know about that.”
“It’s true,” she says with a genuine smile. “I know it’s hard to believe, but you already have loads of people who are ‘obsessed’ with your stories. In fact, I’m pretty sure you have a few who would read your grocery lists if you posted them. It’s okay to be proud of yourself.”
My stomach twists at her words.
Pride comes before a fall. That’s what I heard countless times growing up in church. Sure, I knew my parents were proud of me. My friends, too. But I never learned how to celebrate my own efforts, because I’d been afraid to get too cocky.
“Your mom would agree with me if she were here right now,” Cindy whispers, as if reading my mind. “She believes in you. Your husband believes in you. Your children, your friends, your Substack subscribers, even your dog and cat—they all believe in you. Now,” she pokes my chest, “You know what I say, no matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing—”
I join her in reciting the well-known lines. “—the dream that I wish will come true.”
“Yes, now you’re getting it.” Cindy claps her hands, producing a tiny cloud of sparkles. She stands, nearly blinding me with the cinematic radiance of her gown. “Now, it’s time for me to go.”
Magical light swirls around her life-sized frame. But before it swallows her whole, I hold up a shaky hand.
“Cindy, wait!”
The light pauses, and I swear there’s a hint of annoyance in her demure expression.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
“You can thank me when you’re famous,” she winks, snapping her fingers and disappearing into the light, leaving behind her signature pile of sequins.
I shake my head, a wry laugh escaping my lips. “Sure thing, Cindy. I’m just glad your sequins won’t be clogging up my Roomba anymore.”
Thanks for reading! I hope you all have enjoyed my banter with my early childhood idol, Cinderella. If you’d like to read more of my Halls of Pandemonium entries, check them out below.
Love,
Halsey
Another one of yours I missed! Bloody hell, I loved this so much. Watching you share your querying journey with us makes me really mad - at the publishing world that causes such amazing writers such as yourself doubt your own abilities! this piece felt like you giving yourself some grace, which I very much hope lasts.
Love this!