Artful Academics: Ghosted

By Brandy Renee McCann

In 7^th grade I was in love with a boy named “Jimmy.” I still remember the heat of our kiss in a deserted hallway during a high school basketball game. Given that I was 12 years old, he should have been my first kiss, but he was my 2^nd  or maybe even 3^rd depending on what counts as a real kiss. Because I’m that kind of girl. The kind of girl who wore short skirts, tight jeans, and black mascara.

The kind of teenager whose parents fretted because she was so boy crazy. “You’re going to end up pregnant!” said my mom. “You’ve already had more than your fair share of boyfriends!” said my dad.

The kind of girl, a guy once told me, that boys would fuck but would never marry.

And so it was that even though I was desirable, like most other teenagers, there was no shortage of time I spent waiting by the black rotary phone that was never going to ring.

The funny thing about my on-again/off-again teenaged romance with Jimmy was that almost always he was the one who would pursue me, and then a few weeks later would dump me for no apparent reason. Usually he’d have another boy give me the news. The sudden silence on his part was akin to the more contemporary phenomena of ghosting—typically when a romantic interest suddenly cuts off all contact without explanation.

I know what you’re thinking, or trying not to think: but this wasn’t a love-em-and-leave-em situation, something about “getting the milk for free.” For despite my ultra femme presentation, and fondness for kissing, I was quite churchy, and among the last of my friends to become sexually active. Jimmy and I never progressed far enough for him to even try those moves. He just ghosted me for reasons I still do not understand.

Ghosting has become increasingly common, even in non-romantic social interactions. In my academic appointment I liason with community organizations frequently. People are noticing the ghosting trend. Professional ghosting it’s called. Since the pandemic it has been increasingly difficult to make sustained contact with others. Recently I discussed this with a colleague who speculated that people are overwhelmed and it has become acceptable, if frustrating to be on the receiving end, to ghost and be ghosted alike.

Several months ago I was approached—out of the blue—by an acquisitions editor at a respectable small press who seemed quite taken with my work. I was flabbergasted, but like most emerging writers, hoped that this was my big break into book publishing. She came on strong—wanted to meet, wanted to work with me to develop a memoir proposal. I already had one in the works; the timing felt kismet! Yet, I could hardly believe what was happening because it seemed too good to be true. I shared her emails with my partner: am I reading too much into this I asked. He congratulated me, thought it all sounded legitimate. I’m on the forums and know that plenty of would-be book authors get their hopes up when they should know better. But I couldn’t resist thinking that maybe this was my Cinderella moment.

For a few weeks I let myself fantasize a bit. But I did have enough sense to know that publishing is a long, fraught process. I told myself that at any stage, she or other folks at the press might decide they didn’t like what I have to offer after all. I sent a draft proposal; next step was to set up a zoom to discuss revisions. I imagined, worse-case-scenario, I would intuit if she was trying to let me go gracefully. I would watch for signs and not get my hopes up too high. Despite my attempts at levelheadedness, I didn’t expect it to end so suddenly with nary a “It’s me, not you” smoothing over. I never received any response to the proposal draft and no response to one follow-up email.

I did not expect to be ghosted. But I can’t help thinking that I should have known better.

It was Jimmy all over again. The thing about ghosting is that it leaves you in awful self-doubt. Was my skirt too short? My pants too tight? I’m not photogenic; maybe she saw a candid photo of me and thought I’d be too a hard sell for the marketing folks. Did I say something? Did I not say something I should have? I am direct, given to bluntness. I do not have good manners and have to deliberately practice the social graces that come naturally to others. Maybe I slipped. Maybe there was some cue I failed to recognize. I studied our email exchanges and replayed our conversation from the time we met in person. I had no answers. The self-examination turned into self cross-examination until my mind shut down in exhaustion.

I haven’t picked up my manuscript for months. I have been reading other books in my genre. I have focused on writing teachers who are dedicated to craft and who are dedicated to the power of narrative to heal the world. I’m almost ready to look at the proposal and manuscript again. I’m almost ready to believe I have a story worth telling. My eyes will be fresh and I am grateful for that.

That inner teenaged girl sitting by the phone waiting for Jimmy to call? I thought she was long gone but I learned real quick that in my creative aspirations, she’s still there. There seems to be no aspect of writing that doesn’t poke at old wounds. But the scar from that particular wound is well-healed. Thirty years have passed since Jimmy last ghosted me. I can say without hesitation that I am so, so glad that he disappeared because better things were waiting. So I take comfort in that knowledge as well: better things are waiting.

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Ready Brandy’s other work here at Reckon.

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