Wild fantasies flood my mind. I could grab them and run out, be halfway down the block before Mrs. Liu realizes what’s happening. I could douse this whole place in oil while she’s out and burn them, and no one would be any wiser. “Have you read what’s in them?” I ask cautiously. Mrs. Liu sighs again. “No, I’ve thought about it, but I . . . It’s very painful. You know, even when Athena was alive, it was difficult for me to read her novels. She drew so much from her childhood, from stories her father and I told her, from things . . . things in our past. Our family’s past. I did read her first novel, and that’s when I realized it’s very hard to read about these memories from someone else’s point of view.” Her throat pulses. She touches her collar. “It makes me wonder if we should have spared her all that pain.” “I understand,” I say. “My relatives are the same way with my work.” “Oh yes?” No, that’s a lie; I don’t know what compelled me to say it. My folks couldn’t care less about what I write. My grandfather griped about having to pay the cost of my useless English degree all four years that I was at Yale, and my mother still phones once a month to ask whether I’ve decided yet to try something that will let me earn real money, like law school or consulting. Rory did read my debut novel, though she didn’t understand it at all—she kept asking why the sisters were so insufferable, which baffled me, because the sisters were supposed to be us. But what Mrs. Liu wants right now is company and sympathy. She wants to hear the right words. And words are, after all, what I’m good at. “They feel too close to the subject matter,” I say. “I draw a lot on my own life in my novels, too.” This part is true; my debut novel was nearly autobiographical. “And I didn’t exactly have a smooth childhood, so it’s hard for them . . . I mean, they don’t like to be reminded of their mistakes. They don’t like seeing things through my eyes.” Mrs. Liu nods vigorously. “I can understand that.” I see my way in. And it’s so obvious, it almost feels too easy. “And, well, that’s sort of whyI wanted to come talk to you today.” I take a breath. “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Liu. I don’t think putting her notebooks up for public access is a good idea.” Her brows furrow. “Why not?”
“I don’t know how much you know about your daughter’s writing process . . .” “Not much,” she says. “Almost nothing. She hated talking about her work until it was finished. She got so snippy if I even brought it up.” “Well, that’s just it,” I say. “Athena was so private with her stories while she was putting them together. They draw from such painful histories—we spoke about it once; she described it as mining her past for scars and ripping them open so that they bleed fresh again.” We never spoke about writing quite so intimately; I read the part about ripping scars open in an interview. But it is true; that really is how Athena thought about her works in progress. “She couldn’t show that pain to anyone else until she’d perfected the way she wanted to tell it, until she had complete control over the narrative. Until she’d polished it into a version and argument that she was comfortable with. But those notebooks are her original thoughts, raw and unfiltered. And I just can’t help but . . . I don’t know, I feel like donating them to an archive would be a violation. Like putting her corpse on display.” Maybe I’m a bit heavy-handed with the imagery there. But it works. “My goodness.” Mrs. Liu touches a hand to her mouth. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe—” “Of course it’s up to you,” I say hastily. “It’s entirely your right to do as you like with them. I just thought, as a friend, I feel obligated to tell you. I don’t think that’s what Athena would have wanted.” “I see.” Mrs. Liu’s eyes are red, watery with tears. “Thank you, June. I never even considered . . .” She’s silent for a moment, staring at her teacup. She blinks hard, then glances up at me. “Do you want them, then?” I flinch back. “Me?” “It hurts to have them around.” Her shoulders sag; the whole of her seems to wilt. “And since you knew her so well . . .” She shakes her head. “Oh, what am I saying? It’s such an imposition. No, forget about it.” “No, no, it’s just that . . .” Should I say yes? I would have complete control over Athena’s notes for The Last Front, and who knows what else. Ideas for future novels? Full drafts, even? No, best not to get greedy. I have what I want. Any more, and I risk leaving a trail. Mrs. Liu might be discreet, but what might happen if the Yale Daily News reports, however innocuously, that I now own all those notebooks?
And it’s not like I’m trying to build an entire career on repurposing Athena’s work. The Last Front was a special, happy accident—a melding of two modes of genius. Whatever work I produce from here on out will be my own. I don’t need the temptation. “I couldn’t,” I say gently. “I wouldn’t feel right. Perhaps you could leave them in the family?” What I would like is for her to burn them, to scatter the ashes along with Athena’s so that no one, no curious relative decades from now, can go poking through them to dredge up what should be left alone. But I have to make her think she came up with the idea herself. “There’s no one else.” Mrs. Liu shakes her head again. “No, after her father went back to China, it was me and Athena, just the two of us.” She sniffles. “That’s whyI said yes to the Marlin people, you see—they would at least take it off my hands.” “I just wouldn’t trust a public archive,” I say. “You don’t know what they’ll uncover.” Mrs. Liu’s eyes widen. Suddenly she seems greatly disturbed, and I wonder what she’s thinking about, but I know it’s best not to pry. I’ve already gotten what I came for. I’ll let her imagination do the rest. “Oh my goodness,” she says again. “I can’t believe . . .” My stomach twists. She looks so distressed. Jesus Christ. What am I doing? Suddenly all I want is to be out of there, notebooks be damned. This is so fucked up. I can’t believeI had the nerve to come here. “Mrs. Liu, I don’t mean to pressure you—” “No.” She sets down her teacup with a thud. “No. You’re right. I will not put my daughter’s soul on display.” I exhale, watching her cautiously. HaveI won? Could it have been that easy? “If that’s what you—” “That is what I have decided.” She glares at me, as if I’m about to try to talk her out of it. “No one will see those notebooks. No one.” I stay for another half an hour beforeI go, making small talk and telling Mrs. Liu about how I’ve been doing since the funeral. I tell her about The Last Front, about how much Athena inspired my work and that I hope she’d be proud of what I’ve written. But she’s not interested; she’s distracted, asking me thrice if I want some more tea although I’ve already said no, and it’s obvious she wants to be left alone but is too polite to ask me to leave.
When I finally get up to go, she’s staring at the boxes, clearly terrified of what lies within. I KEEP TABS ON THE MARLIN ARCHIVE WEB PAGE FOR THE NEXT FEW weeks, scanning for any updates about the Athena Liu collection. But there’s nothing. January thirtieth comes and goes, which is the date the notebooks would have been made available to the public. One dayI search the Yale Daily News website to find that the original announcement has simply been taken down without acknowledgment, its URL broken, as if the story had never existed.
Five THAT WEDNESDAYI HAVE MY FIRST VIDEOCONFERENCE MEETING with my new publicity and marketing teams. I’m so nervous I could puke. My last experience working with a publicist was awful. She was a pinched-face blonde woman named Kimberly who only ever sent me interview requests from bloggers that had, maybe, five followers. When I asked for anything more, like maybe coverage at a website that people had actually heard of, she’d say, “We’ll look into that, but it depends on interest.” Kimberly, like everyone else, had known early on that my debut was dead in the water. She just didn’t have the heart to say it to my face. Half the time, she misspelled my name as “Jane.” When I left my old publisher, she sent me a curt little email that read only, It’s been such a pleasure to work with you. But this time around, I’m struck by everyone’s enthusiasm. Emily, who does publicity, and Jessica, who does digital marketing, kick things off by telling me how much they adore the manuscript. “It just exudes the gravitas of a much older writer,” Jessica gushes. “And I think we’ll be able to position it really well between historical fiction, which women really enjoy, and military fiction, which suits a male audience.” I’m shocked. Jessica seems to have actually read my book. That’s a first —Kimberly always seemed confused as to whether I’d written a novel or a memoir. Next, they walk me through their marketing strategy. I’m overwhelmed by how comprehensive it is. They’re talking Facebook ads, Goodreads ads, maybe even metro station ads, although it’s not clear if anyone pays attention to those anymore. They’re also investing big in bookstore
placement, which means that from the day that it’s out, my book will be the first thing people see when they walk into any Barnes & Noble across the country. “This will, for sure, be the book of the season,” Jessica assures me. “At least, we’re doing everything we can to make it so.” I’m speechless. Is this what it was like to be Athena? To be told, from the beginning, that your book will be a success? Jessica wraps up the marketing plan with some dates and deadlines for when they’ll need promotional materials from me. There’s a short pause. Emily clicks and double-clicks her pen. “So then the other thing we wanted to ask you is, uh, positioning.” I realize I’m supposed to answer. “Right—sorry, what do you mean?” She and Jessica exchange a glance. “Well, the thing is, this novel is set in large part in China,” says Jessica. “And given the recent conversations about, you know—” “Cultural authenticity,” Emily jumps in. “I don’t know if you follow some of the conversations online. Book bloggers and book Twitter accounts can be pretty . . . picky about things these days . . .” “We just want to get ahead of any potential blowups,” says Jessica. “Or pile-ons, as it were.” “I did hours and hours of research,” I say. “It’s not likeI, you know, wrote from stereotypes; this isn’t that kind of book—” “Of course,” Emily says smoothly. “But you’re . . . that is, you are not . . .” I see what she’s getting at. “I am not Chinese,” I say curtly. “If that’s what you’re asking. It’s not ‘own voices,’ or whatever you want to call it. Is that a problem?” “No, no, not at all, we’re just covering our bases. And you’re not . . . anything else?” Emily winces the moment those words leave her mouth, like she knows she shouldn’t have said that. “I am white,” I clarify. “Are you saying we’ll get in trouble becauseI wrote this story and I’m white?” I immediately regret phrasing it like that. I’m being too blunt, too defensive; wearing my insecurities on my sleeve. Both Emily and Jessica begin blinking very quickly, glancing at each other as if hoping the other will speak first.
“Of course not,” Emily says finally. “Of course, anyone should be able to tell any kind of story. We’re just thinking about how to position you so that readers trust the work.” “Well, they can trust the work,” I say. “They can trust the words on the page. The blood and sweat that went into telling the story.” “No, of course,” says Emily. “And we don’t mean to invalidate that.” “Of course not,” says Jessica. “Again, we think anyone should be able to tell any kind of story.” “We’re not censors. That’s not our culture here at Eden.” “Right.” Emily then shifts the conversation to where I’m based, whereI might be up to travel, etc. The meeting fizzles out pretty quickly after that, before I’ve gotten a chance to get my bearings back. Emily and Jessica tell me again how excited they are about the book, how wonderful it was to meet me, and how they can’t wait to keep working with me. Then they’re gone, and I’m staring at an empty screen. I feel awful. I shoot off an email to Brett, airing out all my anxieties. He responds an hour later, assuring me not to worry. They just want to be clear, he says. On how exactly they can position me. As it turns out, they want to position me as “worldly.” Jessica and Emily send us a longer email detailing their plans the next Monday: We think June’s background is very interesting, so we want to make sure readers are aware of that. They highlight all the different places I lived when I was little—South America, Central Europe, a half-dozen cities in the US that were stops on my dad’s never-ending tour as a construction engineer. (Emily really likes the word “nomad.”) They highlight the year I spent in the Peace Corps in my newly written author biography, although I never went near Asia (I was in Mexico, making use of my high school Spanish, and I quit early becauseI got a debilitating stomach virus and had to be medically evacuated). And they suggest I publish under the name Juniper Song instead of June Hayward (“Your debut didn’t reach quite the same market we’re hoping for, and it’s better to have a clean start. And Juniper is so, so unique. What kind of name is that? It sounds Native, almost.”). Nobody talks about the difference in how “Song” might be perceived versus “Hayward.” No one says explicitly that “Song” might be mistaken for a Chinese name, when really it’s the middle name my mother came up with during her hippie phase in the eighties and I was very nearly named Juniper Serenity Hayward.
Emily helps me pitch an article about authorial identities and pen names to Electric Lit, whereI explain that I’ve chosen to rebrand myself as Juniper Song to honor my background and my mother’s influence in my life. “My debut, Over the Sycamore, written as June Hayward, was rooted in my grief over my father’s death,” I write. “The Last Front, written as Juniper Song, symbolizes a step forward in my creative journey. This is what I love most about writing—it offers us endless opportunities to reinvent ourselves, and the stories we tell about ourselves. It lets us acknowledge every aspect of our heritage and history.” I never lied. That’s important. I never pretended to be Chinese, or made up life experiences that I didn’t have. It’s not fraud, what we’re doing. We’re just suggesting the right credentials, so that readers take me and my story seriously, so that nobody refuses to pick up my work because of some outdated preconceptions about who can write what. And if anyone makes assumptions, or connects the dots the wrong way, doesn’t that say far more about them than me? THINGS RUN MORE SMOOTHLY ON THE EDITORIAL SIDE. DANIELLA loves what I’ve done in the revisions. All she requests in her third pass are some light line edits, and a suggestion that I add a dramatis personae, which is a fancy term for a list of all the characters accompanied by short descriptions so that readers don’t forget who they are. Then it’s off to a copyeditor, who from my experience are these superhuman, eagle-eyed monsters that catch continuity errors unseen to the naked eye. We only run into one wrinkle, a week before my copyedit pass is due. Daniella emails me out of the blue: Hey June. Hope you’ve been well. Can you believe we’re already six months out from publication? Wanted to bring up something to get your opinion—Candice suggested that we get a Chinese or Chinese diaspora sensitivity reader, and I know it’s late in the process, but do you want us to look into things for you? Sensitivity readers are readers who provide cultural consulting and critiques on manuscripts for a fee. Say, for example, a white author writes a book that involves a Black character. The publisher might then hire a Black sensitivity reader to check whether the textual representations are consciously, or unconsciously, racist. They’ve gotten more and more popular in the past few years, as more and more white authors have been criticized for employing racist tropes and stereotypes. It’s a nice way to avoid getting dragged on Twitter, though sometimes it backfires—I’ve
heard horror stories of at least two writers who were forced to withdraw their books from publication because of a single subjective opinion. I don’t see why, I write back. I’m pretty comfortable with the research I did. A response instantly pings my inbox. It’s Candice, following up. I feel strongly we ought to hire a reader familiar with the history and language. June is not Chinese diaspora, and we run the risk of doing real harm if we don’t check any of the Chinese phrases, naming conventions, or textual recounting of racism with a reader better suited to catch mistakes. I groan. Candice Lee, Daniella’s editorial assistant, is the only person at Eden who doesn’t like me. She never makes it so evident that I have grounds to complain about it—she’s unfailingly polite in emails, she likes and retweets everything I post about the book on social media, and she always greets me with a smile during videoconference meetings. But I can tell it’s all forced —there’s something in her pinched expression, the curtness of her words. Maybe she knew Athena. Maybe she’s one of those wannabe writers daylighting as an underpaid, overworked publishing junior staff member with a China-inspired manuscript of her own, and she’s jealous I’ve made it big when she hasn’t. I get that—in publishing, that’s a universal dynamic. But that’s not my problem. Again, I’m quite comfortable with the research I did in preparation for this book. I don’t find it necessary to delay things for a sensitivity read at this point in production, especially since we have a tight turnaround for review copies to early readers. Send. That should be the end of it. But an hour later, my inbox pings again. It’s Candice, doubling down. She’s addressed the email to me, Daniella, and the entire publicity team. Dear all, I want to emphasize again how important I feel it is that we get a sensitivity reader for this project. In this current climate, readers are bound to be suspicious of someone writing outside of their lane—and for good reason. I understand this would slow down production, but an SR would protect June from accusations of both cultural appropriation and, worse, cultural leeching. It would show that June meant to represent the Chinese diaspora community in good faith. Jesus Christ. Cultural appropriation? Cultural leeching? What is her problem? I forward her email to Brett. Can you tell her to step off? I ask. Agents are wonderful intermediaries during heated exchanges like this; they let you
keep your hands clean while they drive in the knife. I think I’ve made my stance pretty clear, so why is she still bothering me with this? Brett proposes that perhaps, instead of bringing in an outsider, we can have Candice do the sensitivity read instead. Candice responds curtly that she is Korean American, not Chinese American, and that Brett’s assumption otherwise is a racist microaggression. (It is at this point that I determine Candice exists entirely to complain about microaggressions.) Daniella jumps in to smooth things over. Of course they’ll default to my authorial judgment. Hiring a sensitivity reader is entirely my choice, and I’ve made it clear that I don’t want one. We’ll stick to the original production timeline. Everything is fine. The following week, Candice sends me an email apologizing for her tone, on which Daniella is cc’d. It’s not a real apology; in fact, it’s passiveaggressive as fuck: I’m sorry if you felt offended by my editorial suggestions. As you know, June, I only want to help publish The Last Front as well as we can. I roll my eyes, but I take the high road. I’ve won my battle, and it never pays to bully a poor editorial assistant. My reply is succinct: Thank you, Candice. I appreciate that. Daniella follows up in a private thread to inform me that Candice has been taken off the project. I won’t have to interface with her anymore. All further communications about The Last Front can go directly through Daniella, Emily, or Jessica. I am so sorry you had to deal with this, Daniella writes. Candice clearly had some strong feelings about this project, and it’s affected her judgment. I want you to know that I’ve had a serious conversation with Candice about respecting boundaries with authors, and I will make sure this never happens again. She sounds so apologetic that for a moment I feel embarrassed, nervous I’ve blown this out of proportion. But that’s nothing compared to the relief that finally, for once, my publisher is firmly on my side. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN SOMEONE YOU KNOW GO FROM ORDINARY TO, suddenly, semifamous—a polished, artificial front familiar to hundreds of thousands of people? A musician from high school who made it big, perhaps, or a film star you recognize as the blonde girl on your freshman floor with the eating disorder? Have you ever wondered at the mechanics of popularization? How does someone go from being a real person, someone you actually