Crimson Fox - Gloria i

 Hi Everyone,

And welcome back to my novel, Crimson Fox!

Synopsis:

Gloria Carlisle filled every article she wrote for Anthem magazine with her penchant for classic rock and her passion for storytelling. When her editor assigns her an interview with the lead singer of the country’s number one rock band, it’s Gloria’s chance to establish herself as a Black female writer in a white man’s world of rock journalism.

When the singer cancels the interview and refuses to reschedule it, Gloria must return to L.A. to face her editor with no story.

After hours on the road, Gloria finds herself at the Silver Cactus, a small bar and grill in the middle of the desert, owned by the former bass guitarist of the all-female rock band Crimson Fox. That pitstop leads to a journey across the country and back to the desert in search of the story that was never told—the story Gloria was meant to write, and the one that will show her who she was always meant to be.

Read the Prologue here.

Crimson Fox by Anne Eston

Gloria

i.

The ’74 Camaro rumbled as Gloria brought it to a stop across the road from Moon Dogs front man Kip Ripper’s mansion outside of Vegas. The sound of the V-8 filled her with excitement. Her mechanic Ricky, who was really more like a brother to her, helped Gloria find the car. And it was Ricky who put the life back into it and got it sounding like it did now. The Camaro was a washed-out blue and didn’t even have a racing stripe on the hood. Gloria had paid too much for it, but God, she loved it.

She put it in Park and cut the engine. The car ticked as it settled after the long drive from L. A., the same way her eyes flicked over the massive gate in anticipation of what was about to happen. Gloria Carlisle was about to write the biggest story of her young life.

Never mind that she’d only gotten it because Scott Peterson had emergency surgery yesterday. Her editor Jeremy couldn’t get away to write it himself, and none of the other staff writers wanted to do it—they claimed Ripper was on his way to irrelevancy, and who wanted to read a bunch of introspective bullshit about a fading rock icon, much less write one? And apparently it was still cheaper to send Gloria, a low-level staffer, than it was to secure a stringer at the last minute.

Jeremy didn’t hesitate to let her know how lucky she was to get this break, being a woman and all. And being Black. He didn’t say it out loud, but it hung in the air between them when he offered her the assignment.

To hell with that. Gloria belonged here as much as any of her colleagues at Anthem Magazine. She had even more passion for the genre than many of them.

Gloria couldn’t help that she’d gone to a predominantly white high school, that she was well-spoken, loved poetry and listening to rock music. Her father told her half-seriously that she wasn’t his kid, that she’d been left on the doorstep by witches when she came home from the record store with a bunch of albums by Rick Springfield, Van Halen, and Journey. Gloria’s mother was a little more understanding when it came to Pat Benetar because “she’s no Aretha Franklin, but the girl’s got a voice.” At some point between the 7th and 10th grades, rock music just set up camp in her soul and stayed there. And sitting at Kip Ripper’s gate to interview him was right where Gloria wanted to be—right where she was supposed to be.

She started the car again, and grinned as she snaked her way across the wide, dirt road. Gloria blindly reached for a tissue from the box on the passenger seat and rid herself of the spearmint gum she’d chawed on for the whole drive. As she pulled up to the gate, a tall figure strolled toward it from the other side.

He wore white slacks, black shoes, and a black tee shirt. His brown hair hung to his shoulders in a messy shag cut. But he wasn’t Kip Ripper. A small wave of relief washed over Gloria. This meant she’d have a little more time to collect herself. 

An invisible control activated the gate, and the man walked through it as it opened. Gloria rolled down her window as he approached the car. She pulled her sunglasses down on the bridge of her nose so he could see her eyes. He did not return the favor.

“Good afternoon,” Gloria smiled. “I’m Gloria Carlisle, I’m here to—”

“Yeah. So.” He put his hands on his hips and gazed out at some unnamed point on the other side of her car. “Not gonna be an interview today.”

“Oh . . . I see. Well, I’m happy to stick around for a couple of days if Kip wants to reschedule.” Even as she said it, Gloria thought it was highly arrogant of Ripper to cancel the interview, much less expect her to float around Vegas until he decided to grant her an audience. But that’s a rock star for you. 

When the manager, boyfriend, agent, whoever he was turned his gaze back down to her, Gloria was glad she couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses.

“No interview. Period.”

***

Thanks for reading! If you’re in the midst of writing your own novel, reach out, I’d love to hear about it.

22, Then and Now

 A couple of weeks ago, during my final session with my writing/career coach, he gave me the parting assignment of writing a letter to my 22-year-old self. He suggested this based on a story I told him in the session.

I had just graduated from college and taken my little sheltered Ohio-born-and-raised-self to New York City. It wasn’t like I would be panhandling for my first gig. I went from a protected life at college to one in the Big Apple: I was staying on a friend’s couch in her luxury high-rise apartment at 72nd and Third. And I had a lot to learn.

Among my first lessons: wear sneakers for walking and whip out the dress shoes upon arrival to the job interview, temp assignment, whatever.

On the heels of that lesson was learning how to decode the want ads. They all made administrative work sound exciting and full of possibilities for advancement. I had responded to one before I even arrived in the city, and I had an interview! I was stoked. Sure, I knew I probably wouldn’t land the first job I interviewed for, but I still felt confident. And then I answered a few dozen more want ads just like it. Eventually, I did land my first gig at a university in their public relations department, which seemed like a good fit.

But before I landed that job, I had another quite significant interview of sorts. It was set up for me by my friend on whose couch I was crashing. She was a Black female executive at Avon, no small feat in those days. The meeting she arranged for me was with one of her colleagues, another Black female executive. 

I was really excited. I thought I could at least get my foot in the door. I had a 3.5 GPA; I had professional recommendations; and I had my friend. But maybe I was expecting too much because I didn’t even get a toe in the door.

The executive I met with coolly shook my hand and settled into her leather chair behind her desk. The arrogance rolled off her like mist off of dry ice. I thought I was prepared for this “information interview.” But she only needed one arrow of inquiry and it found its mark.

“What do you want to do?” she asked in an exasperated tone, as she glared at my resume. “I mean, you have this degree in Communications. So what to do you want to do? Public Relations, Corporate Communications? . . .” I muttered something about being open to any of those. “Well, they’re all very different.”

My memory of the rest of what she said in that short meeting is a little foggy. But I am clear about the feelings I was left with afterward: that my degree was too broad; that I was stupid for not having a plan, and for coming into the meeting without one; that I should have had my future all figured out at the ripe old age of twenty-two.

Immediately following my last session with my coach, I felt excited about the idea of writing a letter to my 22yo self. I began to compose the letter in my head from the wizened me, strong and confident. But life happened, and by the time I was ready to sit down and do the assignment, I didn’t feel much like tackling it anymore. I was in a funk. But I also realized that I was basically getting that same question from a couple of people, albeit without any of the arrogance I’d experienced before.

An unexpected work opportunity came my way recently. I thought a lot about whether or not to pursue it, and I decided to go for it. I wanted to talk to some professional friends in the industry about one aspect of the work. They were positive, but both mentioned how great it would be, especially if this was a career path I wanted. What this felt like to me was another version of how great it would be, as long as I had figured out what I wanted, and this was the sole path I wanted to take.

And then I realized that, in a way, I have no more “figured things out” than I did when I was 22. And that’s downright depressing. I started composing a new letter in my head: “I got nothing for you, kid. It doesn’t get much better no matter how much you try.”

Having watched and then started to read Tiny Beautiful Things, I found myself wishing I could just write a “Dear Sugar” letter. I felt like she would have something better to say to my 22yo self than I did at that point.

Lo and behold, that night when I picked up the book again, near the end was a chapter with a letter from a girl who asked just that: “What would you tell your twentysomething self if you could talk to her now? Love, Seeking Wisdom.” Holy cow. The synchronicity sent a warmth through me that immediately dispelled the coldness of the expectation that I should have it figured out by now. Sugar’s reply was just the reassurance I needed.

It's good you’ve worked hard to resolve…issues while in your twenties but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again.

Thank God!

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels . . . these are your becoming.

Wow! There was also this bonus section that touched on the recent disintegration of a friendship that had also been weighing on me:

You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever love you because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.

And finally:

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. 

BOOM. Thank you, Sugar. That is exactly what I wanted to say to my 22yo self before I went careening down the heinous and inauthentic vortex of what I should have figured out. Bonus: it’s also what I need to remind myself of right now, even as ripe with experience as I am. Because I’m still on my adventure. And that’s okay. Love, Me.

***

If you’re a writer in the second act of your adventure too, I’d love to hear how it’s going for you. Reach out to me at anne@writeranne.net.