When confronted with the occupation space on forms, I find myself vacillating between “teacher” and “writer,” the first being the wonderful yet challenging job I have taken on while simultaneously fighting to maintain my identity as the second. Occasionally, these universes intersect.

Take the day before yesterday. I was helping students with their winter break assignment: to choose a pleasure reading book and write a review. The school librarian arranged a tantalizing reading display and the kids were making choices. I was suddenly stunned to see a book with a title I recognized all too well. Years ago, before I started teaching, I had been approached by an assistant editor to write three sample chapters of this very book. Her advice: watch Gossip Girls to get a better understanding of the tone and target market, and throw in plenty of branding. “A sweatshirt is never just a sweatshirt,” she told me. “It’s a hot pink front-zip from Juicy Couture.”

Over the next few weeks I received a great deal of glowing feedback for the work I submitted, written in a flippant, materialistic voice gleaned from forcing myself to watch some truly terrible television. Ultimately, I finished the three chapters and what I turned out was, I was certain, exactly what they had in mind. Sure, I struggled a bit with the whole sellout thing, but in the end, I would be getting paid for doing what I love most.

After I submitted the chapters, I waited.  Typically, the editors gave me feedback within a day or two, but not this time. One week went by, then two. I emailed and asked politely if they had gotten around to reading my stuff. No response. Two more weeks went by, and again, I emailed them, and again, there was no response.

Maybe they scrapped the whole thing. After all, it was a standard and rather tired premise: the mean girl reduced to wearing braces and glasses, forced to cultivate the sensitive, mildly dorky crowd for friends, seeing the light, and ultimately, reforming. Maybe the publisher had moved on to more innovative plot lines without informing me, which, while rude and annoying, might be the industry standard for those naïve enough to accept spec work. I figured I’d gotten practice writing in a style I would never otherwise have attempted. I thought about it less and less. I let it go.

And then, years later, here was the book, staring me in the face. I read the back of the jacket. Yep, the storyline was intact. One of my students picked it up. “What do you think of this one, Mrs. H.?” she asked.

Since I’m a teacher, I told her she should definitely read it, and to include a lot of detail in her review. But, then, since I’m a writer, I found myself hoping to God that it sucks.