A Perfect Day by Richard Paul Evans

every application required work references. This didn’t bode well. I had held the same job at the same station for seven years and Stuart had been my only boss. I regretted calling him stupid.
     
    It was two weeks after I sent my book out that I received my first response from an agent. I had been grocery shopping with Allyson, and as I brought the groceries in from the car, Allyson went through the day’s mail, fanning the bills back like a deck of cards. Suddenly she stopped and lifted one from the pile. “Robert. You got a letter from an agent.”
    I laid the sacks I carried down on the counter and took the letter. It had come from a Minnesota literary agency. I looked up at Allyson then I extracted the letter and unfolded it.
    Dear Mr. Harlan,
    Thank you for sending your manuscript, A Perfect Day . While I found your writing interesting, I’m sorry to say that I don’t think I am the right person to represent this material, especially in today’s crowded market.
    I’m sure another agent will feel differently. I’m sorry to disappoint you, and I wish you the best of luck.
    All Best Wishes, Howard Guttery
    My heart fell. “It’s a rejection letter,” I said. I dropped it on the counter.
    Allyson looked at me, frowning. “Now what?”
    “It’s nothing,” I said. “No one gets accepted the first time. The Great Gatsby was turned down a dozen times before it was published.”
    I’m sure Allyson saw my response for what it was—a coping mechanism—but what I said was also true.
    “Don’t worry,” I said, more for myself than Allyson. “There are twenty-four more agents to go.”

Chapter 12
    T he next weeks passed like torture. The rejections from the agencies continued to arrive. The letters all pretty much said the same thing, kindly worded form letters written by people with vast experience in rejecting. A few of the letters were identical in content.
    With each letter my dream seemed farther from my grasp. I stopped picking up the mail. My job hunt was equally fruitless. I had contacted every radio station in the Salt Lake and Provo market, including a few I felt were beneath me. I was turned down by every one of them. Between the literary agencies and the radio stations I faced rejection at every turn, and what my father had planted in me was now being reinforced on a daily basis: that I was, in fact, a failure.
    Depression set in, accompanied by its myriad symptoms. I put on weight and didn’t shave for days at a time. I spent hours in my den either on the Internet or playing mindless computer games. I began sleeping in. Even though it required more effort from Allyson, she never said a word. I believe that she was waiting for it to pass like a bout of the flu or something. But it didn’t. One night, after she had put Carson to bed, Allyson came down to my den. I was playing solitaire on my computer.
    “Can we talk?”
    “Sure,” I said, moving a card across the screen.
    She sat down next to me. “I’m worried, Rob.”
    “About what?” My eyes were still locked on the screen.
    “Would you please look at me?”
    I released the mouse and turned around. “About what?”
    “I’m worried about you.” She ran her hand across my cheek. “Don’t you shave anymore?”
    “Since when do you have a problem with facial hair?”
    “Rob, look at you. You haven’t even showered yet. What have you done today?”
    I saw where this was going and turned back to my computer. “I made a few calls.”
    “Have you paid the bills?”
    “No. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
    She took a deep breath. I knew that I wasn’t making this easy for her. “Rob. You’re taking this so personally.”
    “Taking what personally?”
    “The rejection letters.”
    “How else should I take them?”
    “You’ve written a great book. It’s enough.”
    I turned back around. “It’s not enough. If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, did it make a sound?”
    She looked at me as if I were crazy.