“Ariel, what about your own creative edge?” he asked her one day as she was reviewing the final edits for The Great Gatsby. Max had done most of it himself, but he always liked for Lorewyn to cross-check things, even if she wasn’t running point on a particular project. She looked up at her boss, not sure of his meaning.
“My creative edge?”
“You’ve been working with me for four years now,” Max continued. “Come on, I pay attention to things. It’s why I’m an editor. I see how you approach a project. I notice your style in editing, your conversations with authors, your choices when it comes to diction. It’s like there’s this… whole other world in that blonde head of yours, a veritable reservoir of ideas, of stories, of stuff floating around that gets a little room to breathe when working with other writers’ material… but what about your own? Haven’t you thought about branching out and doing some writing yourself? You know the business inside through and through.”
Lorewyn paused in her proofing and considered his words. A whole other world in my head… Oh, Max, if only you knew the whole story! But she padded her reply.
“I’ve been known to hold a pen from time to time and let it work a bit of magic on the 8 x 11 canvas,” she offered smugly.
Max nodded approvingly. “Well, if you ever have anything you’d like me to look over, let me know. I’m happy to be a second pair of eyes for you. Of course, your pair alone is more than adequate I’m sure! Bottom line, it’s like what I tell the authors I work with… just get it down on paper, and then we’ll see what to do with it.”
Lorewyn hadn’t thought about writing her own material in a very long time, but Max’s suggestion gave her some inspiration. She talked with Rhianyn about it one night after a shipment of booze got detained at the Canadian border and failed to arrive at the Back Room, causing the club to run out and close early, pending another shipment getting through via a different source. Rhianyn had come home sooner than expected.
“Blackbird, do you think I could write good stories?” Lorewyn asked.
Rhianyn cuddled up in bed with her wife, where Lorewyn had been propped up doing some note-taking and plot outlining on a sketch pad.
“You wrote some beautiful verse for me once,” she replied softly. “And I know you’ve written some letters in the past. And you kept a journal back in Cordysia, didn’t you? I think after all that you could write some pretty amazing stories. I mean, think how much experience is clogged up in that S’trysthyl head of yours.” She leaned in and planted a lingering kiss on Lorewyn’s forehead.
“Clogged?” Lorewyn scoffed playfully, setting the pad aside and grabbing Rhianyn on the bed, pouncing on her. “Is that a reverie deprivation joke? Are you saying I’m having trouble releasing memory in my middle-aged years?”
Rhianyn laughed in return, not resisting her wife’s frivolous pounce. “Hmm, I don’t know. This realm’s middle ages lasted a good millennium, with both of us in it. That’s a lot of memory. Should I grab the plunger?”
Lorewyn just shook her head, giggling relentlessly, as she wrapped her arms around Rhianyn, letting herself roll over on her side with her, as one of her hands made its way to the nearby lamp on the nightstand, switching off the lights.
Lorewyn did, however, spend some time writing a piece of original fiction. Historical fiction, as she perceived it, though she realized it wouldn’t be categorized as such by anyone other than Rhianyn. She finished a draft a few months later, working on it in between her editing jobs, which were increasing.
“I never pictured you as a Science Fiction enthusiast,” Max commented after reading her story. It was an adaptation of Lorewyn’s experiences and events surrounding her and Rhianyn’s initial arrival on Earth in the 5th century, her interactions with Irmyl, and her unusual state of being trapped on the other side of the mirror, so to speak. Lorewyn had taken considerable creative license, of course.
“Science Fiction?” Lorewyn was unfamiliar with the term. “I suppose it’s as good a name as any for the genre.”
“Oh, it’s not my own description,” Max clarified. “You ever heard of Hugo Gernsback? Friend of mine. Great chap. Came here from Luxembourg originally, of all places. We met several years ago. He lives here in New York, works a lot with the local radio industry. He’s always been on the cutting edge with stuff like that. Anyway, he just published a new magazine, Amazing Stories. Jules Verne type stuff, H.G. Wells, Edgar Rice Burroughs’ A Princess of Mars… He coined the term, Science Fiction. I kinda like it. Not my type of reading personally, but I like the phrase.”
“Well, I did read a Mark Twain story a while back called A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court,” Lorewyn explained. “I can see the connection. Yes, I can see how my story might be considered Science Fiction.”
Max handed the story back to her. “As you know, Scribner’s doesn’t deal in this genre… at least not yet. Who knows? Maybe in the future…” He paused, seeing whether or not Lorewyn would get the pun. She did, of course, and just shook her head, offering her “typical Max” expression.
“But try Gernsback,” he continued. “I’ll call him, put in a good word for you. See if he’ll publish it in his magazine.”
“You know, Max,” Lorewyn said, “you have your moments… you really do.”
Beneath the Surface by Ariel Archer was in fact published a couple months later and appeared in an issue of Amazing Stories. And although Scribner’s wasn’t the publisher, Max Perkins still made sure to get a copy of the issue and kept it in his office. “Written by one of our own,” he would say.
It was right around that time, Summer of 1926, that Max handed the draft of a first novel to Lorewyn for editing. Some explanation was due.
“The author’s a newcomer to the novel-writing business. He’s written a lot of short stories, but when he got his hand on a copy of Gatsby last year and read it, he knew he had to throw his hat in the ring. He’s got some connections in the literary world, a bit of an ego, a rather interesting personality, and perhaps a score to settle with life in general. But Scribner’s signed him on, and he delivered the first draft to us. He’s in Paris at the moment, but will be returning to New York in a couple weeks to talk with us about the work and our recommendations.”
Max took a puff on his pipe before concluding. “I want you to take first crack at it. I’ve already reviewed it, but I’m reserving my comments until after you’ve proofed it.”
It wasn’t the first time Max had handled a project like this. It was flattering, in a roundabout way. It was like he was saying, “I have my own thoughts about this, but I want to keep an open mind and give you a chance to offer input so that my own ideas can be amended if needed before going into the final stage.”
Lorewyn looked at the title. The Sun Also Rises.
“I’ll get right on it, Max,” she stated, getting up to leave with the draft.
“Any more story ideas for Gernsback?” he asked. “You know… I spoke with Hugo after Beneath the Surface got printed in his magazine. He was impressed. ‘A woman who can compete with the likes of Burroughs and London,’ he said. High praise from him. I told him I’d check in with you and see if you had any follow-ups.”
Lorewyn nodded, grinning. “I have a project in the works. But I’m still doing a bit of ongoing research on it. You might say it’s somewhat… satirical.”
The author arrived from Paris a couple weeks later, as expected. They had the meeting at the publishing house, which was a bit unusual. Lorewyn soon realized the reason for this… the elderly president of the company and son of its founder, Charles Scribner Jr. himself, was attending the meeting.
After the pleasantries, rounds of cigars (which Lorewyn bypassed of course), and small talk, Max took the lead, addressing the author and Mr. Scribner.
“As I’m sure you know, Miss Archer has been handling the initial proofs on this book,” he explained. “She’s done amazing work with material written by Fitzgerald, Wharton, a few others. So, I’m going to turn
it over to her to offer her insights into The Sun Also Rises, and see where this first novel can go.”
He sat down and gave the floor to Lorewyn. She had never had an in-person review meeting with Scribner himself present before. She had prepared her review, and there were some difficult things that needed to be said.
Max trusts my work, she assured herself. He wouldn’t have given this to me if he didn’t think I was on point and could offer a fair and critical edit. She took a breath and plunged ahead, addressing the room.
“I’ve made some basic notes in terms of mechanics,” she began. “You can see those in the margins of the draft. But that’s simple. In terms of real substantive editing, I have some recommendations concerning this novel that might seem, well… a bit of a reach beyond what an editor normally does. I say this with a degree of humility, not wanting to re-write the author’s material, nor undermine the message of his book… and I do believe there is a message here, a message with merit.”
She cleared her throat, took a drink of water from the glass in front of her, and proceeded. “I’m very concerned about what I perceive as hostility and hateful attitudes toward homosexuality in the book, as well as antisemitism. Now, as I said, I don’t want to appear as a censor against an author’s freedom to express ideas. I value that freedom of expression, greatly in fact. I’m also keenly aware that we live in an age where audiences might reject these notions and find fault with the author’s work. These are interesting times, are they not? In just the past few years, we’ve seen Women’s Suffrage in this country, a revival of artistic and musical expression in the Black community, particularly here in Manhattan, just north of here in Harlem. We’ve seen significant technological and scientific advances that have increased the size of our communities and propelled a more global mindset… radio, automobiles, added conveniences in domestic life. With such changes come change in perspective, and that change is almost always leaning toward more open-mindedness. And yes, there is often reaction, fear, and a desire to withdraw into the traditional and more comfortable confines of past boundaries. I respect the author’s efforts in this book to confront certain challenges regarding masculinity. I think we’re at a crossroads in our culture where those ideas should be scrutinized, and I think this novel allows for that. But the aforementioned comments regarding homosexuality and antisemitism? I think these elements in the book need to be examined again and revised. I’ve offered some suggestions, and those can be seen in my review, to which you have access.”
Lorewyn stopped for a moment. The room was very quiet. She made a quick survey to see if someone was about to say something, but there were no such indications. So, she completed her report.
“And… while I find the scenes in Spain depicting the running of the bulls in Pamplona, the bullfights, matador imagery and so on to be colorful and an adventuresome aspect of the novel, I would suggest that a bit more research be done on the subject in order to provide a more realistic picture, even though this is a work of fiction. However, even in the realm of fiction there must be an element of believability… else the work becomes pure fantasy. And I don’t think the author wrote a fantasy here. I think it’s an excellent attempt at realistic fiction… fiction with a message and with some enduring qualities that could potentially secure this first novel as an American classic in the years to come.”
She fell silent, now very aware that three pairs of eyes were glued upon her and had been for the past couple minutes. Still, no one said a word. Then, the author suddenly broke out in a very loud and plainly condescending laugh.
“Perkins, you actually let this jingle-brained jane proof my work?” he snorted. “You trust a broad, look what you get! You must be dizzy for her, or something. She got something on you, Max? She gonna call your wife if you didn’t let her preach this sermon at me?” He just shook his head, still laughing.
Lorewyn didn’t even bother looking at Max. She leaned over the table a bit and faced the author directly.
“Sir, what I just ‘preached’ to you is an honest assessment of your work through the lens of an editor with five years of experience at this company and multiple best-sellers to her proofing credit,” Lorewyn stated firmly. “And while I was originally planning to leave out my comments regarding aspects of misogyny in your novel, despite the seemingly ‘liberated woman’ jive that gets peddled through your character of Brett Ashley, I see now through your comments to me that perhaps I should’ve just thrown the book at you, pardon the pun. I’m trying to offer you some help. Some ideas that could help your book sell better and reach a wider audience in our modern times. A ‘woman’s perspective,’ you might say. Your fellow author F. Scott Fitzgerald valued that when I worked with him. I would’ve hoped that you would value it as well, especially seeing that Mr. Fitzgerald himself offered you some advice on this book.”
“Oh, this is rich!” the author ranted on. “So, baby doll, what really did it for you? Was it the word ‘faggot’ in the novel? Was it ‘kike’? Do I use ‘bitch’ a few too many times? Or maybe I should’ve just gone for the jugular and thrown in some ‘ni…”
Max stood up at this point, interrupting him. “I think we all need to just calm down a bit,” he suggested.
“No, Max, I got this,” Lorewyn insisted, still focused on the author. “It’s not your choice of words per se, nor the frequency in which you use them in your text. No, sir, it’s what’s behind the words. It’s the insecurity and cowardice of a very small man, a little man indeed who has an opportunity here in this first novel to explore something really good, to help us see the complexities of Human relationships and the challenges associated with gender roles in society. But no… you use it as a scapegoat to vilify those who you perceive make you feel inferior, those who perhaps have something that you don’t. And because they’re different from you, you hate them for it. I’ve known men like you… many men like you, and for a long time too.”
The author scoffed one last time and stood up abruptly. “Max, I’ve heard enough from this chippy flapper. She doesn’t touch my book again… you hear? As for her review… stick it in the wooden kimono, and her with it! You handle the proofs from here, or no one does! That’s all.”
He shoved his chair against the table and stormed out of the room. Max exhaled in frustration, lowering his head into the palm of his hand. Scribner, who hadn’t said a word in quite a while, stood up a moment later and addressed both Max and Lorewyn.
“In my father’s day of running this company, no woman would’ve even set foot in this room and had the opportunity to deliver a review at all,” he said coldly. “Your conduct, Miss Archer, is inexcusable. You’ll hand over the draft of the novel to Mr. Perkins, plus any other work for any of our clients that you’re currently completing, and leave this building at once. I don’t ever want to see you in this publishing house again, is that clear?!”
He didn’t wait for a response and exited the room with deliberate strides.
Lorewyn didn’t watch as Scribner left. A moment later it was only her and Max remaining in the room. She slowly handed her review and copy of the draft to him, only allowing her eyes to meet his long enough to see the sadness, the regret, and the loss. For a moment she wasn’t sure who felt the most loss.
Nothing more was said, nothing more needed to be said, as Lorewyn walked out of the room, got her coat and belongings from her office, and exited the building.
CHAPTER 6
The author got his way, of course, and his debut novel was published by Scribner’s that October. Max had done the final proofs himself, and had offered the writer some advice regarding certain words, phrases, and use of profanity. He seemed to accept these edits readily from Max, being that he was a man, even though Max’s suggestions were largely based on Lorewyn’s initial review.
Max Perkins was loyal to his company, but he also understood loyalty that ran deeper than mere institutions. He understood loyalty to people. He called Lorewyn about a month after she had left the publishing h
ouse and invited her to lunch at Katz’s on Ludlow. Lorewyn was happy to accept.
“Any luck finding anything new?” he asked her as they were finishing their meal.
“Not in the publishing business, no,” Lorewyn replied stoically. “The old man did a pretty good job of blacklisting me. Five years and solid credentials, you’d think it would be worth something. But… like most other things, it’s not what you know but who you know, or who you cross… especially if you’re wearing a skirt.”
Max didn’t reply right away but withdrew a piece of paper from his coat pocket. He handed it to Lorewyn.
“This is strictly on the down low,” he explained. “Scribner made it clear that he’d like nothing better than to see you banned from the whole gig entirely. But I don’t play that game when it comes to quality people… and you’re quality people.”
Lorewyn felt herself blushing, but Max continued, motioning to the paper.
“The guy’s name is Bernie Macfadden. He’s from Jersey, kind of a strange fella… health nut, diet expert, vegetarian. I don’t understand it all, but he runs the New York Evening Graphic. I’ll be straight with you, it’s tabloid journalism, not the Times. However, I know Bernie and his business, and he’s on the level when it comes to taking care of his people. The Graphic tends to have a high turnover rate, and I just heard that they’re looking for a new editing assistant. You got the experience, the skill, and a reference from me will land you the job, I’m pretty sure. That and your faster than a cheetah running from Saxton Pope and Arthur Young typing speed. Macfadden won’t give a damn what Scribner says either, so there’s that.”
Lorewyn just smiled humbly, holding the paper in her hand. She finally sighed and faced her former senior editor.
Two Birds, One Feather: The Lives and Times of Lorewyn & Rhianyn in America Page 7