by Wendy Wax
They were sitting around a table in the center of the Clayton Café, the remnants of their afternoon feast surrounding them.
“Well, it does remind me a bit of the Downhome Diner,” Tanya conceded, “and I wouldn’t say this to Belle, but that’s some of the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.”
“You can’t get black-eyed peas and collard greens like that in Chicago,” Faye added. “I’m going to have to let the waistband out on these pants. And I know I shouldn’t have had that piece of peach cobbler.”
They left a hefty tip and paid their checks on the way out. Practically waddling from all they’d consumed, they stepped out onto the sidewalk two abreast and decided to walk off some of what they’d eaten.
Faye hesitated in front of the bookstore, but Mallory shook her head. “Don’t even think about it. Kendall has a whole slew of reasons for not setting foot in there right now, which I’ll explain when I’m not so close to exploding. But I bet you big money she’d be glad to show you the Home Depot.”
Kendall blushed slightly. “Well, I did think we might stop off just for a minute so I could pick up a few supplies. There are a few things up at the house that I’d like to take care of.”
“That’s because the store manager’s a real hottie and has a thing for Kendall,” Mallory teased.
Kendall blushed again. “And I thought we might stop off at the grocery store, too, so we can lay in some food.”
“Now that’s a great idea,” Mallory said. “Let’s buy enough so we don’t need to come down the mountain until it’s time to go back to the airport.”
“Damn straight,” Tanya said. “I say we give ourselves tonight off and then get up early tomorrow morning and get right to work on Kendall’s idea.”
“Absolutely,” Mallory said.
“I’m with you on that one,” Faye added.
Kendall just stared at the three of them, trying to keep the panic out of her eyes. “I hate to disappoint you when you’ve gone to such effort to come visit. But I don’t know how much I’m capable of right now. I mean I’m thrilled to have the company and the support, but I don’t feel even the tiniest germ of creativity at the moment. I can’t even concentrate long enough to read a book right now; I can’t imagine trying to write one.”
She saw the quick look the other three exchanged and she held her hands up in surrender. “Hey,” she said, “I’m not saying I wouldn’t love to be writing, and I know for a fact I need to be writing. I just don’t think there’s much of anything you could say or do right now that would make that possible.”
16
Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
—E. L. DOCTOROW
Mallory sat propped up in bed, her laptop, appropriately enough, in her lap, as she stared at the view through the sliding glass doors of her basement-level bedroom. She’d been sitting in this position since just before 6:00 A.M. when her alarm had gone off so that she could start writing.
So far she’d spent most of the last hour and a half either watching the sun’s rise through the layer of clouds that hovered over the valley floor or staring at the cursor blinking its nyah nyah nyah nyah nah at the top left corner of the blank page. In between these two time wasters, she’d checked her e-mail, which was full of communications from her editor and agent, but displayed not a single message from Chris.
Tired of looking at the blank screen, Mallory closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried, once again, to place herself inside the mind of the character from whose viewpoint she’d intended to write this scene. But her own mind raced, lighting briefly on everything from what they’d have for breakfast to getting Kendall started on her book to her agent and editor’s queries about her progress. Chris was there, too, yet another member of the crowd in her head vying for her attention.
The only person who didn’t seem to be there was the character she was supposed to be writing.
With a groan, Mallory pressed back against the pillows and closed her eyes more tightly, but she could barely remember what Eleanor Rafferty looked like let alone what she thought or felt.
Above her head, footsteps sounded on the wood floor of the kitchen. Soon the scent of coffee reached her nostrils. She was debating whether to admit defeat or soldier on when the dinner triangle clanged loudly and Tanya’s voice pierced the morning quiet.
“Rise and shine!” Tanya yelled. Another clanging of the triangle followed. “It’s time to get out of bed and get to work!”
Mallory thought a rooster would have been both kinder and gentler, but Tanya seemed to be taking her role as alarm clock and personal motivator seriously.
“Don’t make me come in and pull you all out of bed!” she threatened, after several more clangs failed to produce the desired result.
Mallory pulled on her sweats and tied her hair back in a ponytail then took the stairs up to the main floor. Within fifteen minutes they all sat around the kitchen table with steaming mugs of coffee in front of them. Some of them looked more compos mentis than others. Tanya was the only one who seemed not only completely awake, but eager to get started. “Boy, you all are pathetic,” she said. She hadn’t bothered with makeup but was fully dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Her hair had been tied on top of her head with a scrunchie. Her face bore a look of determination.
“I would’ve already waited ten or twelve tables by now.” She looked at the three of them then focused on Mallory. “I bet Mal’s already done her twenty pages.”
“I wish,” Mallory mumbled into her coffee. Maybe she should hire Tanya as her personal motivator.
“You wanna go ahead and finish them up while I whip these two into shape?” she asked, as she pointed toward Faye and Kendall, who still looked half asleep.
“No!” Mallory sat up too quickly and came close to knocking over the sugar bowl. “I mean, we’re, um, here to get Kendall started. My work can wait.”
All three of them looked at her as if she had just offered to tear her clothes off and run naked through Times Square. But focusing on Kendall’s panic had allowed her to minimize her own and she still believed—or at least desperately hoped—that applying their combined creativity to Kendall’s idea would not only get Kendall going but also somehow unstop her own logjam.
“Well,” she challenged. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
“Absolutely!” Faye roused and raised her mug in agreement.
“Without a doubt!” Tanya added vehemently.
The three of them now turned to Kendall, who looked as if she were trying to hide behind her ceramic coffee cup. “Yeah, um, right.” She got up and walked to the coffeemaker, where she took her time pouring and creaming another cup of camouflage.
“So, why don’t we cook a real country breakfast—eggs and bacon and the whole nine yards,” Tanya suggested. “Get lots of protein up to our brains.”
“And fat to our arteries,” Mallory couldn’t help adding.
“And then we can set up on the deck and get started,” Tanya concluded as she began to open cupboards. “I’ll cook if you all want to set the table and brew some more coffee.”
Faye joined Kendall at the coffeemaker. “Do you want to take care of the coffee while Mallory and I set the table?” she asked.
Kendall turned to face them. “I’m not quite ready to eat yet, but you all go ahead.” Then she walked over to the hall closet and retrieved a large rectangle of canvas, which she buckled around her waist, just above the drawstring to her pajamas. “I thought I’d go ahead and try to replace that bad section of baseboard in the living room.”
Tanya, who’d already started removing eggs and bacon from the refrigerator, stopped what she was doing to take in Kendall’s attire. “She’s got a tool belt on over her pajamas,” she said to Faye and Mallory, as if they couldn’t see this for themselves. “I didn’t even think they let suburban women wear those things.”
Mallory
noted the odd clothing combination but was even more concerned by the anxiety etched on Kendall’s features. The woman would rather work with power tools than think about her manuscript. Mallory understood all too well. She herself would rather have her fingernails pulled out one at a time than be forced to sit down and try to write at the moment.
But they had limited time together. And none of them wanted to leave Kendall until she was back on track with her manuscript under way.
“Honey,” Tanya said, moving in on Kendall. “The only tools you need today are your brain and a pad and pencil. I really don’t think—”
Unable to bear the panic on Kendall’s face any longer, Mallory cut Tanya off. “Why don’t we let Kendall go ahead and take care of that baseboard?” she suggested. For some reason Mallory didn’t understand, working with her hands seemed to calm Kendall; right now she didn’t think they should rip away a security blanket of any kind.
Checking the kitchen clock, Mallory proposed a compromise. “It’s eight right now,” she said. “It’ll take us about thirty or forty-five minutes to make breakfast, eat it, and clean up. Maybe another thirty minutes for those of us who want to shower and dress. So why don’t we get to work on Sticks and Stones at nine thirty out on the deck?”
She looked first at Kendall, who nodded in relief. Faye and Tanya agreed, too.
“Good, we’ve got a plan.” As always Mallory preferred to be proactive rather than reactive. “Since you all have the cooking and table setting covered, I’m going to go down and take a shower and dress so that I can handle cleanup while you two get ready.”
Faye and Tanya set to work on breakfast while Kendall headed to the living room to tackle the allegedly rotted baseboard. Mallory took the stairs down to her bedroom silently thanking God for allowing Faye and Tanya to come for the weekend. She wasn’t a religious person and there weren’t a whole lot of things she believed strongly in. But the combined force of their creativity was one of them.
By 9:35 they were all assembled on the deck. They sat at the round Plexiglas-topped table with yellow pads and ballpoint pens in front of them. Kendall also had an egg-and-bacon sandwich that Tanya had made for her plus an extra large glass of orange juice, neither of which she could bring herself to touch. She still wore her pajamas and tool belt because the baseboard project wasn’t quite finished when Tanya had come to drag, er, escort her out onto the deck. But at least she was here. And so were her “peeps.”
“Why don’t you start by telling us the basic premise,” Faye suggested.
“Well.” Kendall thought for a moment about the story she had once been so excited about; something she hadn’t been able to do in a long time. “It’s about four writers at varying stages of their careers who became friends before they ever got published and who help each other deal with the ups and downs of publishing.”
“So you’re writing about us,” Tanya said.
“Well, in a sense. I mean, I didn’t plan to write about our real lives—although I was envisioning a New York Times Bestseller.” She glanced at Mallory. “And an author who writes inspirationals.” Faye raised her hand, “Present.”
“And I did sort of have a category writer who was a, um, single mother as a primary character.”
Tanya stood and took a bow.
“But what I wanted to capture was the connection we felt, feel, for each other. And how it enhances our work and, well, um, our lives.” Saying it out loud it sounded as if she’d been too lazy to imagine something and so had decided to rip off their lives. “Originally I thought one of the writers would have a real problem and the others would come to her aid.” Kendall looked around the table and smiled sheepishly. “I had no idea I’d be the one needing help so desperately. I’d pictured a car crash or an illness that kept the protagonist from being able to write, not an evil editor and a disappearing husband.”
“How much of a plot do you have?” Faye asked.
“Not much. I’d seen the main POV character suddenly unable to write the book she had to write and her friends somehow stepping in and helping, but that was as far as I got.” She shook her head at how closely her life seemed to be mimicking her idea. “Weird, huh? I feel like I’m stranded in the middle of a Stephen King novel—you know, a writer gets an idea and all the sudden she’s living it. Maybe if I’d never come up with Sticks and Stones Calvin wouldn’t have left me.”
“With all due respect to Stephen King, I think we can rule out your idea being the impetus for Calvin’s being an asshole.” Mallory’s tone was dry. “But I really like the idea. There aren’t that many books about writers. And whenever I do a signing or a talk, people are really curious about the business and the whole creative process. It could have real appeal.”
“Yeah,” Faye added. “There is a whole mystique attached to being a writer even though it’s probably the least glamorous profession on the planet. All those hours alone in front of a computer; the self-doubt that sneaks in; the flukiness of the business.”
Mallory grinned wickedly. “The lack of showers and grooming during that last patch when you don’t leave your computer for days as the end of a book pours out of you.”
“Or what’s even worse,” Tanya put in, “when you’re so close to typing ‘The End’ that you can taste it and you can’t think about anything but finishing. But you have to keep stopping to go to work. Or take your kids somewhere.” She grimaced. “Or deal with your mother. It’s like being in labor and ready to push and having the doctor say, ‘Wait, don’t push right now. I need to go deal with something. We’ll get back to this in a couple of hours.’ ”
“You know if you can capture all of that, if you can intertwine the realities of being a writer with the personal stories and relationships of each of these characters, you could have something major,” Faye said. “And if you put enough insider information in it, it could be huge with readers and other writers. You could generate a real buzz within the industry.”
Kendall looked at her friends and saw the genuine enthusiasm reflected on all their faces. They weren’t hyping her just to get her started. This was a great idea and could really be something out of the ordinary, a true breakout book much larger than what she’d done before.
For a moment Kendall felt the possibility, imagined the satisfaction of writing such a dynamic story. But in the next moment she realized the futility of it. Because even with such a strong premise, even with her friends here to help her think it out, she didn’t see how she could possibly summon the energy to write this book and do it any kind of justice. Not with the state her life was in and not in the time she had left.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, guys.” She swallowed, trying to rid herself of the lump that had risen in her throat. “I really appreciate you being here and all your fabulous brainpower. You’re the best.” She looked away for a moment, out over the deck railing to the world beyond, hazy through the sheen of tears she was trying not to shed. She wished she could respond in the way she knew they wanted her to, but there was no point in pretending she was going to do something she couldn’t. If nothing else, she owed them complete honesty.
“It could be an incredible book,” she said carefully. “But I can’t write it.” She blinked back the tears that threatened. “Not right now. I just don’t have it in me.”
No one spoke right away, for which she was grateful. But she could practically see the wheels turning in their heads, could see them marshalling their arguments, trying to figure out what it would take to turn her around.
“There’s just no way,” she said, wanting them to understand. “There’s no way I could write a four-hundred-page manuscript in less than three months. Not with my whole real life falling in around me. I can’t even think straight right now. How in the world could I write?”
In the silence that followed Kendall’s pronouncement, Tanya considered her friends. No one really had an answer but all of them wanted like hell to make things better for Kendall.
She had never h
ad to deal with the inability to write, thank you, God. From the time Tanya had started, writing had been the one consistently bright spot in her life.
But she completely understood the horror of having your whole world cave in around you. For Kendall it had been sudden and cataclysmic; Tanya had spent her entire life like that little Dutch boy she’d once heard about who had to keep his finger in the dike. Since childhood she’d been an active participant in adult realities. For a very brief time after she’d married Kyle, she’d thought she could let up and let someone else take over, but this had proved a bad case of wishful thinking. When the dust settled she’d still been all that stood between herself and disaster, only then she had two babies to protect, too.
She looked at the others, trying as always not to be resentful of the easier lives they seemed to lead and reminding herself that Kendall’s life had appeared pretty cushy from Tanya’s perspective and look how that had turned out.
Faye had struggled when her husband had first started his ministry, but they seemed to be doing really well now. There was something in the back of Faye’s eyes that didn’t quite jibe with her role as inspirational author and wife of the charismatic Pastor Steve, but Tanya was not one to pry into even a close friend’s personal life.
And Mallory? For all her outgoing personality and celebrity status, there was a closed book for you. Tanya could count on one hand and maybe a couple of toes the personal things Mallory St. James had ever shared. Up until recently, she’d seemed pretty much like a bestseller machine, cranking them out one after the other, accepting it all as her due. But something was off there, too. For someone who had it all, she didn’t seem all that happy.
And not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but Mallory’s self-sacrifice in rushing to Kendall’s aid also seemed a bit off. If Tanya had been writing a story and had a character who acted so out of character, she had no doubt these very people would have called her on it.