Love Literary Style
Page 19
“I’ll take my chances with the critics.”
His father expelled a long sigh. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do.”
“Here’s a radical thought: You could be happy for me.”
Silence.
“I have another call I need to take. We’ll speak later.”
Aaron suspected it would be a while before he heard from his father again. When Aaron got accepted to the MFA program, his father froze him out for weeks. (Horace Flowers urged him to get an M.A. instead of an MFA so as to be better poised for a PhD.) He refused phone calls from Aaron and on the rare occasions when he deigned to speak to his son, the conversations were brief and terse.
Twenty
Arriving at Featherstone, Aaron was offered not Diet Coke but Earl Grey tea in a fragile china cup. A steel-haired woman in a no-nonsense tweed suit and sensible lace-up footwear manned the reception area. His editor’s office had an old-world ambiance. Leather wing chairs with nail heads flanked a brick fireplace, and the desk was a dignified cherry wood structure. A stark contrast from the space-age Lucite workstations he’d seen at Wilner.
Edward Bulwer dressed like a proper editor, wearing a dress shirt with a stiff white collar and spectacles with small round lenses. He invited Aaron to sit by the fireplace. They discussed his book and not once did his editor use the word platform. A few minutes into their conversation, Aaron asked about social media requirements.
His editor winced. “We discourage our authors from such practices. It’s not dignified to post photos of one’s dinner or to regale readers with one’s mental state. The work should stand on its own.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Any other concerns?”
“You’ve said nothing about the main character. Some readers have suggested he’s…well, rather bleak in his outlook.”
“Deliciously bleak. That’s what makes him fascinating. It’s like watching a train derail. At Featherstone we don’t believe in diluting characters to make them palatable for the average reader. It reminds me of the way the French offer a watered-down version of their coffee for Americans. Featherstone readers can stomach unlikable characters because they demand authenticity in their fiction, and the truth is, the world contains droves of unlikeable people.”
Aaron nodded along. He could have spoken those very words himself.
“Please,” said his editor. “Do not alter a single hair on his unwashed and disheveled head.”
Adjacent to his editor’s desk stood a large oak bookshelf lined with a number of handsome volumes. Aaron pointed to it, “Are those all Featherstone books?”
“They are. Would you like to take a gander?”
“May I?”
“Be my guest.”
Aaron rose and stood by the bookshelf, and his editor joined him. He scanned the titles, all of which he recognized. It was an impressive collection: Nobel Prize winners, Pulitzer Prize winners, and National Book Award recipients. There were also two Nicholas Windust novels.
The temptation to run his fingers across their spines was almost overwhelming. He’d like to open the volumes, take in the eloquent typeface and inhale the smell of ink and binding. As a precaution, he kept his hands behind his back like a schoolboy in an art museum, lest they develop a mind of their own.
“Distinguished company, isn’t it?” his editor said.
“Yes, sir.”
“One day Chiaroscuro will be on that shelf.”
“Hard to fathom.”
“It’s exactly where your excellent novel belongs.”
Aaron wished his father were present to see these books, and to hear his editor speak those words. When it came to evaluating literature, Horace Flowers rarely made missteps, but it appeared as if this time he might have lost his sense of objectivity.
Twenty-One
Dear Laurie Lee,
Thanks for entering the Pink Heart Contest. We had hundreds of worthy entries, and it was difficult to choose our winners. We’re sorry to say you did not place in our contest. We do hope you try us again next year.
Sincerely,
Shirley Nelson, contest coordinator
To: Laurie Lee
From: Bridget Carter
Subject: Excited!
Hi Laurie,
Thank you for the chapters you’ve been sending. When I read them I find myself smiling throughout. What a charming novel.
One small heads-up: Your publishing team had a recent pow-wow, and we’ve decided to bring in another writer to polish up your prose. Her name will be on the cover but in tiny print. In fact, you’ll need a magnifying glass to read it, whereas your name will be as big as the first line on an eye chart.
We at W&W are thrilled about being the midwives for this book and getting it out into the world. You’re a big star around here.
All best,
Bridget
To: Bridget Carter
From: Laurie Lee
Subject: ??
I’m confused. As my editor I thought you’d be the one doing the polishing.
Laurie
To: Laurie Lee
From: Bridget Carter
Subject: Fear not
Of course I’ll be giving feedback. But your book is so special we want it to be the best that it can be. Your cowriter is AMAZING and understands she must retain the spirit of your story. BTW, big-wig authors do this all the time. James Patterson, Janet Evanovich, Clive Cussler. You’re in glittering company.
All best,
Bridget
For three full days Laurie holed up in her house with the drapes closed, speaking to no one. She emailed Ramona telling her not to come to work because she was sick. She texted Ross and told him she didn’t want to see him anymore because he’d lied to her. Aaron was right; he was the false love interest— no more genuine than the set of that rom-com she visited.
Laurie didn’t go near her computer. In fact, the thought of sitting at her desk and composing a single sentence made her feel itchy all over. She almost wished she could give back the advance money and cancel the entire deal. How could she have been so foolish and deluded?
On her fourth day of isolation, someone knocked on the front door. She ignored it, but the knocking continued. A shout came through the door. It was Ross. “Are you in there? If you don’t answer I’m going to assume the worst and call the police.”
“Go away!”
“Bridget sent me. She said you haven’t answered her emails for several days. Please open this door.”
Ross saying Bridget’s name was the equivalent of saying, “Open sesame.” Laurie reluctantly let him in. She was unprepared for the sunlight surging through the open door. It spotlighted her unwashed hair, faded bathrobe and pale face.
“What is this about me lying to you?” Ross’s hair was mussed attractively, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a peek at the landscape of his golden chest. He looked like an advertisement for a luxury product: a Tag Heuer watch or a single-malt scotch.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You blurbed my book even though you knew it was no good.”
“Actually I have no idea if it was good or not. I didn’t read it. I had my secretary read it and she came up with the blurb.”
“But you lied to me and told me you read it.”
“Only because I wanted to make you feel better after Aaron skewered your work. And who cares if it’s not the most polished manuscript in the world? The cowriter will fix it. There’s no shame in that.”
Three days of not eating was catching up with Laurie. She was unsteady on her feet and dropped into a chair. She hugged a throw pillow to her chest, and was tempted to burrow under the cushions like a chipmunk.
“But then it won’t be my book.”
“Yes, it will,” he said. “You were the one who came up with an intriguing concept. Not everyone can do that. Writing ability isn’t always the most important factor when it comes to selling books.”
“It should be.”
Ross moved a stack of newspapers to sit on her sofa. “Think of publishing as being like a restaurant. You have the food preparers in the back, and then you have the front-of-the house people. Both are needed to serve up a tasty meal.”
“But you do your own writing.”
“Yes, but I have an MFA.”
“And you write so fast.”
“That comes with experience.”
“In all the time we’ve been spent together lately, I’ve never once seen you sit down at the computer and…Oh...my...goodness.”
“What?” Ross said.
“It just occurred to me. You don’t write your own books, do you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I do.” The golden skin of his face flushed red.
“Ross.”
“I come up with the concept. I make an outline. I—”
“Do you or don’t you write your own novels? And if you lie to me, I’ll never speak to you again.”
He shifted position on the couch. “Listen, Laurie…You can’t tell anyone. It’s a well-guarded industry secret.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You just told me there was no shame in having a cowriter.”
“It’s different with me. My personality’s too tied up with my writing. A handsome man writing love stories reaffirms women’s fantasies about romantic heroes as soulful and tender creatures.”
“Did you write any of your books?”
“The first one. All the rest have been ghostwritten.”
“I loved the first one!”
“Love’s Prophet was a gift from the gods. It’s never going to happen again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Sorry, but I do. Besides, I’ve found my niche. I’m a much better media personality than writer. It’s not a bad life, being the face and personality that sells the book, and you, Laurie Lee, have what it takes. Once you’re a bestseller, it’s amazing how readers will continue purchasing your books no matter who writes them. In a market like that it’s silly to write your own novels.”
“Surely you’re exaggerating.”
“Not really. V.C. Andrews still makes the bestselling list, and she’s been dead since 1986.”
“Well, I’m not like you. I want to be more than a face and a personality. Aaron tried to tell me that W&W didn’t want me for my writing, but I wouldn’t listen. I’d convinced myself that he was trying to sabotage me. But I was wrong.”
“Sounds to me like you miss the guy.”
“I do,” Laurie said softly. She’d been considering getting in touch with Aaron, at the very least to apologize. She’d even gone as far as calling the university and hoping to leave a message for him, but they said he no longer worked there.
“Aaron will never respect or understand your writing, not in a million years. Is that what you want?”
Laurie tightened the sash on her robe and got up from the chair. “I don’t know, but at least he tells me the truth, unlike you.”
“That’s a shame. I could really help your career. In fact, I think we could help each other’s careers. Everybody loves a golden couple. You may want to rethink your decision.”
“My decision’s firm. And I don’t want your blurb either. It’s not genuine.”
Ross laughed. “You’re as much of an innocent about publishing as Aaron. Blurbs are rarely genuine. They’re just one author doing a favor for another. But luckily readers don’t know that.”
“I don’t care what everyone else is doing. I only want a genuine blurb. Guess what else? I’m going to rewrite my novel and finish it myself. And I’m going to give it everything I have. Maybe it won’t work out, but at least I tried.”
Ross stood. “You’re making a huge mistake.”
No, she wasn’t. Her mistake was letting Aaron go. But she had no idea where to find him. The only person who might know would be Emma.
Laurie entered The Spine, and no one was behind the register. It was quiet inside—almost as if the building was empty—and so dimly lit it was as if she was squinting through smog. She wandered through the labyrinth of towering stacks, looking for signs of life. In the True Crime aisle, she sensed a presence behind her. She pivoted on her heels and came face to face with Emma, who was holding a price gun. It was aimed at Laurie’s heart.
“Help you?” Emma said with an unnerving smile.
“I was, uh…I hate to trouble you but…I need to speak to Aaron about something important. Do you know where I might find him?”
Emma’s face was in the shadows. “Yes. I do.”
“Really? That’s great.”
Silence.
“Will you tell me?”
Emma glanced at her watch. “Let me see. Right about now he’s probably in my bed, waiting for me to get home so we can have torrid sex.”
“I, uh...don’t understand.”
“You’re not very bright, are you? Torrid means extremely hot, both in the literal and figurative sense.”
“I meant...Are you and Aaron—?”
“Back together? Yes, indeed, we are. We’re living under the same roof and loving every single minute.” She swiped her tongue over her lips in a suggestive manner. “You’re welcome to visit, of course, but if our house is rocking, which it almost always is, don’t come knocking. Any more questions?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Can I give him a message?”
“No. That’s not necessary.”
Laurie fled the store. Emma’s words rang in her ears and images of the two of them together flooded her mind. It wasn’t until she got in her car that she allowed herself to scream.
Twenty-Two
“I need a book on novel writing.” Laurie said. “The best book on novel writing there is. One that covers every aspect, because I don’t have a lot of time. Suggestions?”
“One moment, please,” the reference librarian said. Laurie wasn’t at her temping library because she didn’t want to run into former coworkers. The man’s fingers danced over the keyboard. He paused and said, “Well, there’s a Dummy’s Guide…”
“Sounds like the one for me.”
“Wait. It’s checked out…Let’s see…This is interesting. There’s a book on novel writing called Craft, and it just so happens the author lives right here in Atlanta. He teaches at Metro Atlanta University.”
He wrote down the call number for her, and Laurie took it, saying, “Much obliged.”
Before going into the stacks she paused. If the author lived in town, why didn’t she simply pay him a visit and see if he’d be willing to help her with her writing one on one? Surely she could learn more from a person than a book.
Horace Flowers’ office was located in a looming brick building called Monroe Hall. His door was ajar, and the tinkle of classical music drifted into the hall.
“Knock, knock,” she said before entering.
No response; maybe he couldn’t hear her over the music.
She poked her head in the door. “Hi there. May I come in and speak to you for a moment?”
A man sat in his chair with his eyes closed as if sneaking a catnap. His resting face was disgruntled, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was an unpleasant person. Some people simply looked that way when caught unawares.
Laurie lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ll come back another time when you’re not—”
“I don’t take student appointments. I’m a professor emeritus.”
His eyes remained closed as he spoke, and his voice matched his grumpy expression.
Laurie was relieved this prickly person was not Professor Flowers.
His eyes flew open, and he stared at her. “Was that your attempt at a joke?”
She didn’t recall saying anything funny. “I’m looking for Professor Flowers. Could you tell me where he is?”
He put on a pair of half-moon glasses and studied Laurie.
“Are you a student here?”
“No, sir.”
“And what do you want with Dr. Flowers?”
“I want him to help me improve my novel-writing skills.”
He yawned and didn’t even bother to cover his mouth. “That won’t be possible.”
“Well, maybe you should let Dr. Flowers answer that question himself. If you’d just tell me where he—”
“I’m Dr. Flowers.”
“But you just said you were—”
“Professor emeritus is an honorary title. And I no longer teach classes.”
Laurie blushed. She had never gone to college and didn’t know all the various academic ranks. “I don’t want to take a class. I want one-on-one lessons.”
“I don’t do that either.”
“I’ll pay, of course. Very well. Because it needs to be an intensive course. I’ve got a novel under contract, and my deadline’s looming. I’d probably need to see you every day for a month.”
“You have a book contract?”
She nodded.
“Who’s the publisher?”
“W&W.”
“A solid operation but decidedly lacking in prestige.” He scratched behind his ear.
“Will you do it?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he unwound the wrapping from a spearmint Lifesaver and popped it into his mouth. He savored it for a few seconds before speaking.