| Life as Greta: Chapter 2 | Full Time Fame and Mystery | | Print | |
| Written by Bethany Hiitola | |
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 "You're what?" Mom shrieked so that all the morning 'brunchers' at the Keweenaw Lodge were aware of our conversation. In the beginning, my work with Clamming was part time. We had a few hiccups because I had refused to leave my current steady paying job to become his ghostwriter. I feared that the whole gig was a joke. So, I only worked ten hours a week to start, in the evenings. I wanted to make sure I got paid for my work, and enjoyed the mystique of writing as someone else. It turned out I fit the bill exactly-- and I found new confidence in the fact that my name would never appear on the manuscript. I e-mailed Clamming with all the details for full-time employment. Work from home, weekly or bi-weekly paychecks, vacations time, health benefits, 401K options, etc. hoping he'd at least consider the scheduled paychecks and knew I could arrange for the rest if he wasn't accommodating. To my surprise-- he accepted all terms, and had a contract stating such delivered to my doorstep the next day. The only catch? I had to start working for him full-time within 48 hours. I talked with a lawyer friend-- and it was all legit. I put in my notice the next day. It didn't hurt that Clamming included a healthy paycheck as an advance and hourly rates for each project that well surpassed my full-time job as a technical writer. But my mom thought otherwise. And told me so. Again and again.  "For this maniac? Mystery man? Whoever you want to call him?" She pursed her lips and stirred her coffee, "you don't even know if he exists-- and now you want him to be responsible for your livelihood?" Dad just kept his eyes down on his omelet. Genevieve stayed occupied feeding her twin 8-month-old boys with Dave, her husband. "And what about health benefits? 401K? Your future?" Mom just couldn't let it go. "He pays well, Mom." I made sure to talk to her calmly and slowly, so I wouldn't be wildly reacting to her misjudgment of the situation. "And he ALWAYS pays me on time, and he pays what he states he will pay at the beginning at the project." "And where does this money come from?" Mom continued, unrelenting. "Have you ever SEEN this man? His credentials? He could be a crook." "I've worked for him for over a year-- no problems," I said simply. "Only part-time AND you had a STEADY job." Mom shot back. "Well, now I've decided to go full time," I said proudly and deliberately. "And the money can become much better. If his books continue to be successful, I can make a lot more money. I would receive some of the royalties." "These are YOUR books honey-- not his. He doesn't write one word of them." Mom said almost defiantly.  And perhaps there was the only real reason why Mom didn't want me to work for Clamming. She didn't understand why I would want to write something and not put my name on it-- or OUR name, the family name, on it.The doorbell rang. I nearly jumped out of my chair and peeked into the bedroom--Owen, was thankfully still deep in sleep. The last thing I needed was an early-awakened toddler. With a quick glance down at the car-ridden street below, I saw the FedEx truck illegally parked, blocking the morning traffic-- I buzzed in Brad, the regular FedEx guy, and opened my front door. After a few short moments, a few grunts, swearing, and a swipe of sweat from his brow, Brad arrived at my door with an unusually large package. "Where would you like me to put it?" he asked. "Just wheel it in here. Maybe the dining room would be best." I said steering him past the late-night paper clutter at the desk. And the cracked bedroom door. "I don't know how you do it, " Brad nodded toward the only bedroom in the flat, "How’s Little O?" He pulled the dolly from underneath the box, and he walked back to the front door. "This the package to go back?" "He’s growing. And acting like a five year old in a two year old's body.” I nodded at the large boxed papers on the desk, “That’s the latest.” "Maybe next time the kidling will be up," Brad winked showing himself out, shutting the door behind him. “Maybe,” I sighed, “maybe.” I found the scissors in the top junk drawer in the kitchen and sliced open the top flap of the newly arrived box. It was full of white packing peanuts that spilled onto the floor. On top there was the usual audiotape, but this time it was taped to a jewel case with a compact disk inside. But that wasn’t what got my heart pumping. It was the laptop travel bag handle that was jutting out beneath the remaining peanuts. I reached in, grabbed the strap of the bag, and pulled it out. The weight alone gave away that there was indeed something inside. A 17" Apple MacBook with an envelope taped on the top cover of the box. Inside was a crisp $1 bill and a note: "For all your hard work! You've made me who I am today. Please place the CD in the drive and play it. The dollar bill should be saved in a safe place. We have some new work to do-- I need to make my first public appearance. -Robert" Help write the next chapter! Your idea could wind up in Greta's life. Now things just got interesting! Looks like Clamming is full of surprises for Greta—a laptop, CD, a dollar bill and a mysterious note about his first public appearance. Is he going to come out of hiding? Leave a comment and tell us what you think is on this mysterious CD-ROM. Or the significance of each of the items Clamming has given to Greta. Bethany Hiitola lives in a far north suburb of Chicago with her husband, son and new daughter. Throw in the animals, and it is a full house of chaos. Somehow, Bethany still manages to reach for her dream of writing—all between diaper changes, nap times, fixing meals, and work projects. Oh and giving her husband the attention he deserves. More details are at her website: www.bethanyhiitola.com
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Meet Greta. A 30-something single-mom living in Chicago proper, ghostwriting for a man she has never met. She’s miraculously completed the monthly manuscript deadline between comforting her son from night-terrors and bed-wetting incidents and is awaiting the FedEx man’s arrival in her best black sweatpants from the clean laundry hamper.
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