by J J Hebert
* * *
I’m staring into my laptop, trying to figure out what my next move should be. Maybe I shouldn’t continue to write. I’ve been writing far too long to have nothing to show for it. I hoped I’d at least be published by now, if not a New York Times bestselling author. Maybe I should adopt the conventional—get a second job, and move out of my father’s house. Could I support myself then? What type of a life would that be? I wouldn’t have time for anything other than work. I’d barely get by financially, and what would I have to look forward to? Daily, I see people walking around, dead but alive, zombies. Their entire lives are devoted to making money. My life is no enchanted story right now; that’s certainly been established. On certain hours of certain days, I still want to take a gun to my head and blow my brains out. However, living a dreamless life would be decidedly worse than having the occasional suicidal thought. I don’t want to be eighty-years-old, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of my shack, thinking: I should’ve gone for it. I should’ve taken a leap of faith. Despite the pain I feel from my unconventionality, the pain would triple if I went the conventional route, the walking-dead avenue.
Writing is part of me. Somehow, I have to keep on plugging. But in what way? Should I write a new book? The Forsaken World wasn’t received well. Should I trek through another long and treacherous rewrite? Do I dare?
The sound of an incoming e-mail rings through my laptop, making me feel important. The message is from Arthur.
James, my ferociously ambitious protégé:
Wondering how life is treating you. Give me a call soon. We should get together over tea or coffee in the near future to discuss things. Let me know what works best for you. I want to know how the querying has been going.
Best,
Arthur
I resolve to call him right away. I tell him about the rejections, and he sounds disconcerted, not at me but at the agents, and especially the publisher, who he calls blind and obtuse. He talks me into coming over to his house tomorrow.
* * *
The story of how Arthur and I became acquainted is quite magical. When I was younger, say, twelve through eighteen, I lived in an old-fashioned settlement called Rivertown. Population, give or take, two hundred. Across the road from my house was Snake Mountain, which ironically contained no snakes, and in the center of the mountain, the Abenaki River flowed, which resembled a snake (if you were to look at an aerial shot). That mountain was visible for miles, and if you stood outdoors and listened closely, you heard splashing and rumbling sounds from the river.
While living in Rivertown, New Hampshire for those seven years, I attended two schools: Rivertown Junior High School and Langwood High School. In both stages, I took the bus to school; I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was seventeen. There wasn’t anything particularly memorable about the bus rides themselves, except one home we passed almost daily, a Victorian home, three-story with a rounded tower and a wrap-around porch. In the front lawn there was a garden that was extremely well kept. Nearest the road, nailed onto the middle of a tree trunk, was an engraved sign that read Arthur A. Pennington, Editor, and it often caught my eye.
In those days, I scribbled down stories, quick tales about life—and poetry. I told myself that if I ever wrote anything worthy of an editor’s professional eyes, I would contact Arthur A. Pennington. Years later, I 411’d Arthur’s telephone number and called him to set up a consultation for my first novel, The Forsaken World.
These days, I don’t look on the Victorian from a distance. Arthur A. Pennington isn’t merely a name on a sign; it’s the name of my editor, the white-haired, gangly person standing inside the doorway waiting for me as I exit my car and walk toward the front of his house.
“There’s my ferociously ambitious protégé,” he says, opening the door.
I chuckle, masking the pain of recent misfortune. “Hey, Arthur. Thanks for having me over,” I say.
We shake hands at the door, and he invites me inside for tea and cookies. He takes me into his office, serves the most fantastic chocolate chip cookies—even better than the ones made by those elves who live in a tree—I’ve ever had and pours us tea. I sip as he gathers some papers from his desk in the corner of the room, then brings them to this table. He removes a pen from behind his ear, sets it on the table, pulls a pair of specs from his breast pocket, and puts them on. He looks like an old librarian. “Now, after hearing your unfortunate news, I dove back into your novel to see if I could find examples to support or, better yet, denounce, the thickheaded editor’s comment about your book being overwritten.” He shuffles through the papers, finds a page and points his pen at a line of text. “Tell me, does this sound overwritten to you? Allow me to read: ‘Looking across the street, he was drawn in by the ocean’s beauty, the majestic view of sapphire water spreading over countless miles of landscape—rocks in indistinct shapes, and distant islands.’” Arthur stops, looks at me for a reaction.
I set down the mug. “When I wrote it, I was trying to be descriptive. I don’t see how that translates into being overwritten.”
“Bingo!” Arthur’s voice livens. “There’s nothing even remotely too elaborate or flowery about your work. If anything, there are many points in your novel where you can amplify.” He drops his pen on the table and sits back in his chair. “Do you want to know what I think?”
“Sure.”
“I think she was digging for an excuse to turn you down.” His tone speaks of great control, infinite good sense. “There’s nothing overwritten about your writing and she knew that, but she had to give you some reason under the sun why she couldn’t take you on as a client.”
“Then what do you think the real reason was?”
“Could be a number of factors,” he says. “Perhaps she couldn’t relate to your story. Maybe you caught her on a bad day. Or she could just be an ignoramus.” His tone radiates contempt at the last.
“But what about the agents?”
He leans in, tilts his head.
I persist. “They couldn’t have all been having bad days, and they couldn’t have all had trouble relating to my story, and they couldn’t have all been dense.”
His voice is dignified. “James, the country hosts thousands of agents. You’ll snag one; keep on trolling.”
“But what should I troll with?” I ask. “What should I use as bait? The same story? A new story?”
“Why would you go ahead and write a new story to send them when you have The Forsaken World?” Disbelief is evident in his tone. He doesn’t provide an opportunity for response. “James, don’t you dare let these rejections steer you away from a story that, deep within the chasm of your soul, you know is meant to be in the marketplace.” His voice shakes.
I’m wondering why he’s so fired up about this.
“If you’re unsure about your novel, then revise,” he says. “Revise, revise, revise,” he carries on, pounding a hand on the table for emphasis.
“You don’t think I should even contemplate a new story?”
“No, sir.” His voice borders on laughter. “Definitely not.” Then his face becomes suddenly stern, like he’s about to go into scold mode. “Quitting is a disease. You quit once, it spreads into twice, and before you know what hit you, it transforms into an epidemic.
“Kiddo, I wish I could assist you beyond the editing process,” he continues. “I wish I could snap my fingers and land you an agent. I can’t. You know I don’t have the means. But you’ll find your way. I believe in you.
“It takes a lot of courage to do what you’re doing.” An amount of affection enters his voice. “When I was about your age, I was a writer determined to land on that esteemed bestseller’s list. I wrote every day. No exceptions. Eventually, I had written a tome of my own, hundred fifty thousand words, or something like that. I sent it off to a bunch of editors and agents. Half of them didn’t reply. The other half told me I had no talent.”
I intone. “But I’m sure you were good.”
“I didn’t know that,” he says. “And that was the biggest problem of all. I didn’t know that I had talent, so I allowed them to steer me away from a book that was meant to be in bookstores.”
“You gave up on the story?” My voice is incredulous.
“Yeah.” Same tone as duh. “Just like that. Called it quits.”
“What did you do after that?”
“I became an editor of four prominent magazines, of fiction, and of nonfiction books,” he chuckles. “Those who can’t do, teach . . .” Then suddenly he’s serious, librarian-like, “I want you to understand something very important. Are you listening carefully?”
“Yeah.”
“You are hands down the most talented writer I have ever worked with.” He pauses to let it be absorbed. My head doesn’t grow. He keeps on. “There are people out there in the world that would kill to have your talent, to have such a magnitude of raw talent that you can actually pick up the art of writing as you go. And the persistence aspect, James. Your drive astounds me. Your ferociously ambitious flame, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen or been exposed to.” He stops and stares into my face, examining me, then speaks again, “I know this hurts. Trust me. I know. But you don’t write six drafts of a novel and call it quits. The James Frost I know would never do such a thing. My James Frost would sit his butt back in the chair and keep on writing. He would persevere through any obstacle thrown in his path. He would most certainly, without a doubt in his mind, prove every one of those pretentious, self-righteous dunces wrong. Now isn’t that the James Frost you know?”
I experience a gush of inspiration. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“That’s right it is,” says Arthur. “Remember, James, you can receive countless rejections, but all it will take is one agent to say yes to your novel, one of these people to actually see your work for its potential.”
“You mean that?” I ask.
“You’re what some would call a natural.” He grins. “Some people are born to sing, some to dance, some to play the piano . . . or edit magazines and books. You were born to write.”
In the back of my mind, I know I have nothing other than writing, no chance to escape my job. Having no other option, plus my passion for writing, brings me to this decision: “I’ll try to somehow do another rewrite.” Another factor that plays a role in this choice are the words Arthur uttered moments ago: You are hands down the most talented writer I have ever worked with. And the most recent statement: You’re what some would call a natural. That coming from a man who edits for a living, means a lot.
“Did you say you would try to follow through with an additional rewrite? Because that’s not the right attitude to assume before traveling on a perilous journey.”
“I’m not sure I can do it now,” I say.
“You’re not sure you can do it now? If you don’t revise your story now, when will you? When you’re living out there in the world on your own, forced into working overtime in order to pay the long list of bills, or when you get married and want to devote your time to your new wife, or when you have your first child and are expected to contribute in the raising of that child, or when you have a second and third child that needs you just the same? Then try to execute a rewrite and see how easy it is.”
He takes a swig of tea. “Don’t be like I was at your age and decide against what you know you’re meant to do simply because you don’t know if you can do it now.” His voice is taut. “And don’t be like me and get married and have those three kids without getting back into that writing first,” he says, sadness glazing his eyes. “The time is now. Time is a gift. Sit your butt down and write.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Here I am, sitting my butt down on my bed to write, laptop resting on my lap. Leigh should arrive home tomorrow, and I’m thrilled about that, but I need to push that thought away for the time being to concentrate on the rewrite of this novel.
A piece of doubt lingers around this revision. I’m not completely sold on Arthur’s words, but they have helped me enough to at least get me to open this laptop, and stare into the text of The Forsaken World. His words echo in my ears: You’re a natural . . . The time is now . . . And Mitch’s voice comes into play also, drowning out any trace of Brad: The greatest and most inspiring achievements are not produced by those who conform to society’s idea of normal, but by those who courageously adopt the unconventional. Then I glance to my left, to Robert Frost’s letter, and think Mr. Lonesome, and through all these inspirations, surprisingly, I take the first step toward a fresh rewrite: I choose to begin.
* * *
Hooray for the weekend. It arrives yet again. Last night went fairly well, writing-wise. I accomplished what I wanted to accomplish—twenty fresh pages written. I’ve been increasing the suspense, trying to make the characters more believable, and I’m semi-pleased about where the revision is heading. Otherwise, the night was fantastic because Leigh got back home and we spoke on the phone for almost four hours. Unsurprisingly, the trip was a terrible experience for her, and I don’t think she’ll be returning to the Dominican in the near future, especially with her parents. In fact, I don’t think she’ll go on a vacation with her parents ever again.
Leigh said the weather the first two days was rainy and miserable, which limited them from doing anything outdoors, and therefore they stayed inside their hotel, watching television, going to the indoor pool occasionally, and bickering with one another. According to Leigh, her parents got in a rather large fight about who chose to arrange a trip to the Dominican. Her mother claimed that she wanted to go to California all along, but that Leigh’s father insisted on the Dominican and booked the trip without considering the feelings of his wife.
“I felt like I was in the middle of a war,” Leigh whispered over the phone; her parents’ bedroom is adjacent to hers and the house’s walls have ears. “Their words were going off like grenades, and they were setting each other on fire with bitterness and evil looks.”
“Did you have any fun?” I asked.
“Maybe for about an hour.”
“An hour the entire vacation?”
She sighed. “America’s a great place to live, James.” She dodged the question. “It takes staying in another country to see that clearly.” Then she went on about the food in the Dominican, how it isn’t anything like the food in America, and she provided details about how sick she got after eating a piece of a banana or some mixture of a banana and a tropical fruit. The first half of the trip was plagued with fighting and the second half was beset by violent vomiting, hot and cold chills, pains that shot through her stomach erratically, and sadness for the fact that her mother and father showed virtually no concern or care for her situation; they were determined to not let Leigh’s sickness ruin their vacation, and they went out on the beach and walked and lay in the sun for hours, leaving their daughter cooped up in the hotel room to fend for herself.
“I wish I never agreed to go with them,” she said. “I could’ve stayed here with you and . . . What is it you did while I was gone?”
Well, let’s see, I got rejected by more professionals from the publishing industry, received plenty of abuse from Brad, who still lurks somewhere in my subconscious, waiting to strike again. And, “I worked. Spent some time with Mitch.” I filled her in on my meeting with Mitch, his support, the Robert Frost letter, the magic in it, everything, and she seemed happy. There was one thing, however, that I didn’t tell her about: the rejections. I’m not sure if I want to tell her. Girls like Leigh don’t want to be with losers; they want to be with winners. Right now, I’m far from being a winner.
I’m lying in bed, trying not to think about anything. I envision a chalkboard, words scribbled over its surface, and I use an eraser to wipe it clean. For a moment, my racing thoughts slow down. Thoughts of my conversation with Leigh, of the rewrite that I’m still scared of, and of Thanksgiving tomorrow disappear. Then my mind picks back up and I’m on my way, sprinting with thoughts about that ominous dinn
er, the piece of the phone call that I had forgotten—the part in which Leigh, with her cute voice, charmed me into agreeing to join her family for the holiday. She also invited my father, but he’ll be spending Thanksgiving with a few friends in Massachusetts, so I declined on his behalf.
Officially, I can’t sleep for any more than an hour at a time; I wake and glance at the clock near the top of every hour. The last time I saw Leigh’s parents, they weren’t exactly kind to me. I can think of all sorts of places I would rather be tomorrow than at their home, but I agreed to Thanksgiving dinner at their place. There isn’t any backing out. I suppose I could fake sickness. I could wake up tomorrow, call Leigh, and tell her that I have the flu. I could say, “I was up all night . . . with the flu.” At least, then, the first half of the statement would be true.
Her extended family will be present at dinner tomorrow, which causes anxiety in the pit of my stomach, in addition to what I feel about spending more time with her parents. Leigh’s brother, whom I’ve never met, will be in attendance. Her aunt and uncle will also join us. I have no idea what to expect from any of them. Definitely uncharted waters ahead.
* * *
I bought a pumpkin pie from the supermarket, the most conventional pie of all for Thanksgiving, and I cradle it in an arm while I walk to the front of Leigh’s house, unease ripping through my body. I give the door a pound with the knocker, and there’s no answer. I wait, then slam the wood with the knocker again. Nothing. Finally, I give it another knock. Five seconds later, I hear Leigh’s mother’s voice: “Come in!”
I open the door and cautiously step into the house, catching the aroma of turkey and stuffing, a feast. I’m unsure of what I should do next. I don’t know where Leigh’s mother is, let alone the location of my girlfriend. I finally decide, after much trepidation, that I should at least take my jacket off; I do, single-handedly, balancing the pie in the other hand, and I place the jacket on a coat rack beside the door.
