by J J Hebert
* * *
Dad gave me the night off from work, after much pleading, and Mitch and I are only about three miles from Barbara’s home (according to his directions), traveling in his Cadillac.
“How do you know Barbara, anyways?” I ask.
He shifts into fourth gear. Directions sit in the center console over the cup holders. “My mother knows her,” he says. “I asked Mom if she knew anyone that could be of help to you, the precocious writer, and she recommended Barbara.”
I think of an earlier conversation. “Still no luck tracking down Meranda Erickson?” I ask.
“The writer? No,” he says, “she’s practically a phantom. But my mother tells me that Barbara’s a great lady, always willing to help people out, and I bet she’ll give you some pointers. You never know what you may learn on any given day.”
I prepare myself for her critical analysis, taking deep breaths. In and out. In and out. Leigh enjoyed the rewrite, the bit of it she heard, but Barbara isn’t an amateur; she knows what to look for in good fiction, knows the elements and how they should appear. I hope the polishing I did to the first three chapters will shine through. I cut the word count from about twelve thousand words to eight, concentrating on being more succinct. Leigh would be surprised at the difference.
“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Mitch asks, glancing in my direction.
“I’m a little gun-shy these days,” I say. “The last thing I need to hear is that the former head of creative writing thinks that I stink.”
He shakes his head. “James, my boy, why do you feed yourself that nonsense? Is that really what you think of yourself?”
“On occasion.” Okay, quite often.
“You need to work on that,” he says. “Discontinue the negative messages and replace them with positive ones. Then watch what happens.”
He’s sounding like a self-help book. I am good. I am great. I am . . . full of it. I can’t lie to myself. “What should I do then, walk around with an upturned nose, telling myself how amazing I am?” My tone drips with sarcasm.
“Forget the upturned nose part, and you’ve got it.”
“That’s kinda corny, though. Don’t you think?”
“Not really.” He pauses. “I do it all the time.”
“Give me an example,” I say.
Mitch ponders the request. “This morning, when I woke up, I felt crappy. My back was stiff and I wanted to return to bed and sleep the day away, knowing that I had a game of tennis to play later on. But instead of submitting to my primitive instincts, and instead of reminding myself how old I was feeling, I decided to supply my mind with nurturing messages. I told myself that I just needed to stretch and that my body, as resilient as it is, would be fine as the day went on. Then, as I stretched, I thought about how good my body has been to me throughout the years. And wouldn’t you know it, this afternoon I was able to go to my friend’s indoor court and play some tennis. The point is, James, I was a bit gun-shy about getting a move on, too. But with the right perspective, I ended up joining in the game.” He smiles at me, turns onto a back road. “Now you try it.”
“Out loud?”
“Sure. Let me hear you say something positive about yourself and this situation.”
I’m not feeling this therapy session. “Okay . . . I’m a decent writer. Barbara won’t think that I stink at writing, because I don’t stink at writing.”
“Please,” he says, “you can do better than that.”
“Okay . . . I’m a good writer. Barbara will think I’m a good writer. I don’t need to be nervous about meeting her or about receiving her opinion.”
“I still think you can do better.”
“How’s this? I’m a great writer. Barbara will think I’m a great writer. I’m worried about nothing.”
“By George, I think you’ve got it!” We pull into a driveway. “And just in time, too,” he says. “We’re here.”
Everything Mitch told me flies out the window when we exit the vehicle and head toward the house. My chest feels heavy, like someone’s pressing on it, and an obscure image of a woman’s face spins into my mind. The lips move and say, “I should never have read your novel. It was a complete waste of my time!”
Mitch and I arrive at the entrance and he takes the lead and knocks twice. I hear footsteps from inside the house, then the door swings open and a woman in her mid-fifties greets us. She has short, curly red hair with strips of gray throughout and she’s much shorter than Mitch and I, five-foot-two or something close. She’s wearing denim jeans and a white Ralph Lauren sweater and a modest dose of perfume.
“Barbara Johnson.” She shakes our hands, and we introduce ourselves. Then she says, “I’ve been expecting you. Do come in.” She waves us inside. “Would either of you like a cup of coffee or tea?” she asks as we make our way into the living room.
“Oh, no thank you,” I say. “Never been a big fan.” I smile. What is this? A homespun Starbucks?
She returns the smile. “Me neither. I only carry it in stock for occasions such as this.” She chuckles, then looks at Mitch. “How about you? Coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee sounds great, Barbara.”
She nods at the couch in the corner of the living room and says, “Have a seat. Make yourself at home. I’ll only be a minute.”
We tell her “thank you” and accept her offer; Mitch sits on the left of the couch and I on the other side as she leaves the room. Initially, we don’t speak to one another, soaking in the surroundings: a fireplace between a couple windows to our left, a reclining chair on either side of the room, bookcases lining a far wall, a rocking chair directly in front of us with some papers on it, and no television, not even a radio. Simple comes to mind, as does Amish.
“I’m proud of you,” Mitch says.
“What did I do now?”
“Your bravery, your determination, your talent. Everything about you. . . .You’ve grown into one heck of a man.”
Before I can thank him, Barbara comes back into the living room, holding a cup of coffee, and says, “Now let’s get down to business.” She hands the cup to Mitch. She walks to the rocker, picks up the papers, sits with them in a mound on her lap.
“James, how long have you been writing?” she asks.
I fold my hands. “Most of my life. Some poetry and a novel, as you know.”
“Mitch, did you ever read any of James’s poetry?”
Mitch swallows some coffee, lowers the cup from his face. “Yes,” he says, “and it was exceptional.”
“Good word choice, Mitch.” She smiles, like she just complimented one of her students. She eyeballs me. “Have you always been able to write?”
“For the most part. Not before kindergarten, obviously.”
She chortles. “Thanks for the clarification. But seriously, it comes effortlessly to you, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say that. No. Writing takes effort.”
She glances at the papers on her lap. “It doesn’t seem that way.”
“What do you mean?” Mitch asks.
She begins thumbing through the pages, skimming. “Your words appear to flow effortlessly on the page. I can spot writers like you from a mile away.”
“How so?” Mitch speaks on my behalf.
She sighs, looks up. “In my youth, I took up the clarinet. At first I wasn’t any good. In fact, my parents wouldn’t let me practice indoors because of the offensive sounds I was emitting from the instrument.” She chuckles; we tag along. “Regardless, I practiced. Practiced a little more. And I got progressively better, to a point where I was somewhat adequate.
“Cindy, one of my friends at the time, however, started playing the clarinet about the same time I did. She also practiced. Practiced a little more. But she didn’t just get better. She soared.” Barbara puts her arms on the armrests and starts rocking. “The difference between Cindy and me, other than our hair color, was that from the very beginning she carried with her an innate talent for the clarinet. Once she started playing, i
t was as though the clarinet was merely an extension of her.” Barbara’s eyes narrow in on me. “I want you to think about this, James. Which one are you?”
“Umm . . . I think maybe—”
“I’ll tell you which one you are,” she says. “You’re Cindy.” She smiles. “Metaphorically speaking, certainly.”
“Well, thank you,” I say.
“No. Thank you,” she replies. “I’ve read countless pieces from students your age. I’m guesstimating here, but I’d say that only about five of those students were in the same league as you.”
“That’s quite a statement,” Mitch responds as my representative once more.
“Here’s the thing, James: If you weren’t any good, I’d tell you. It would be a great disservice to make someone believe that they should continue to pursue writing when they glaringly don’t have a prayer. But with you, it would be a great disservice to let you leave here today without telling you that you should definitely continue to pursue writing.” She holds up the papers. “This is all the proof anyone needs. However, that’s not to say that your writing is perfect and there’s nothing you can improve on . . . All writers—including myself—can always improve.” She puts the stack on her lap again. “Before this meeting, Mitch told me that you were interested in possibly taking a creative writing course.”
I had a feeling. “He did?” I play dumb. I turn to Mitch, his face red. He looks up at the ceiling and jokingly whistles.
Barbara nods, then continues, “I believe that taking a writing course could speed things up for you, James. I could help you with the registration process, if you so choose, but please don’t think that I’m forcing you to get involved. . . . If you choose to stay away from school, I think you would still, after some time, learn what you need to learn in order to land on the bookshelves. It is, of course, your decision whether or not you’d like to join a class, but keep in mind, James, that either way, I think you should continue with this story and never quit, no matter how much you might want to at times.”
She looks down at my manuscript. “Now, I’d like to fill you in on a couple aspects of your writing that I feel need improvement.” She turns a page, eyes it for a moment, then looks my way. “First, there are times when you’re fairly repetitive. I believe you can avoid a great deal of this repetition—for instance, the overuse of adverbs, those words ending in ly—by learning to trust in the reader,” she says seriously. Earnestly. Sincerely. “This is difficult for many young writers because they want to make sure that they tell the whole story. Just remember that oftentimes less is better, and also keep in mind that implications are more effective than an in-your-face approach.”
She flips to another page, studies it, nods, then fastens her gaze on me, “Second, are you familiar with the term head popping?”
“Uh . . . no, ma’am.”
“Head popping is when the author chooses to enter the thoughts of multiple characters in the same scene. This can cause confusion in the reader and also detract from suspense because the reader knows what every character is thinking. If you must use multiple points of view throughout The Forsaken World, try to stick with one perspective per scene.” She proceeds to give examples. I listen carefully, making mental notes.
* * *
I’ve decided that I won’t be taking any writing courses. For starters, I don’t have enough money. What’s more, I don’t have time to go to classes. Work, unfortunately, is something that must be done, and if I were to join a class, that would also limit my time with Leigh even more. Plus, I’m scared, which I hate to admit.
Thus, a course really isn’t for me. But that’s okay. Barbara’s advice is proving sufficient as of late. I’ve been reworking bits and pieces of The Forsaken World, according to her suggestions, and it’s turning out well.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I’m tired of walking by the mountain of rejection letters on my dresser. I don’t know why I’ve been hanging onto them. They shouldn’t be revered as souvenirs, but you’d think that’s what they are. Maybe subconsciously I’ve kept them here to remind myself of how bad it feels to be rejected, to motivate the writer within, or maybe I’ve kept them around to torture myself. Or a mixture of both.
I no longer want these next to my bed. I shouldn’t be going to sleep each night with them by my side. Plus, they were wrong. They were wrong for rejecting my book. Each of those agents, and the editor from the publishing house. I’m thinking Barbara would attest to that.
I sit on my bed, wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt, my bedtime clothing, and lift the rejections onto the mattress. I spread them out over the sheets, pick up the first paper my hand lands on.
“You were wrong.” I voice my displeasure directly into the open letter, then I tear the sheet into pieces and chuck the remnants into a wastebasket at the foot of my bed. I grab another letter, reread the rejection, and talk into it. “I’m James Frost. You’ll be hearing that name again.” I toss the paper.
Over the course of about forty minutes, I read all twenty rejections, talk into them like a lunatic, and tear them to shreds. Those agents and the editor no longer have any sort of power over me. Their words have been obliterated. I will never again have to walk into my room, to my bed, and see the papers on that dresser. I will never again wake up with them by my side.
No doubt, this was an exercise of letting go, finding closure and empowerment. I’m going to let the words of Mitch and Barbara and Arthur fill me. I’m going to find inspiration in Mitch’s saying, more than once, that he’s proud of me and in Barbara’s saying that my words appear to flow effortlessly upon the page and in Arthur’s words about my being a natural. These people understand James Frost. Their words hold power.
* * *
I’m writing with a new perspective these days, one of hopefulness and optimism. As I tap at the keyboard, I take refuge in knowing that there are people in the world who believe in my writing. Truly believe. There is Mitch, there is Leigh, there is Arthur, and there is Barbara. Each has helped to mend my afflicted confidence.
Additionally, Robert Frost’s framed message is never far away.
* * *
As predicted, I’m no longer allowed over Leigh’s house; her father strictly forbade my presence in his home. Leigh, since that fateful Thanksgiving, has kept her word, visiting me every weekend at my dad’s house. I don’t have to see her family anymore. What a shame.
It’s Saturday, Leigh arrived at the house fifteen minutes ago, and now I’m driving us to the mall; she wants to go clothes shopping. At first, I was nervous about driving us in this hunk-of-junk car, but the noises and the rust, none of it seems to bother her. In fact, a minute ago, when I told her that I paid this car off and that I like not having a car payment but that I’m often embarrassed by the car I drive, she said, “You shouldn’t be ashamed of this. My dad paid for my car. You did this on your own. You should be proud. It gets you where you need to go.”
It’s flurrying, adding to the hills of snow on the side of the road. As I drive, I feel a sudden dash of self-respect. She’s right; I did this on my own. I paid for this car, and it’s getting us to where we need to go.
When we arrive at the mall, our common ground is hunger, so the food court is our first stop. There isn’t anything extraordinary about the court; it harbors a pizza joint, Chinese food, subs, McDonald’s, and Taco Bell. We roam around for a minute, studying various menus on walls. We decide on Chinese and step into line.
“I think I’m gonna get a number five. General Tso’s and fried rice sounds good,” I say. “How about you?”
“I’ll probably just get some rice and water.”
“I thought you were hungry.”
We move up in the line. Leigh rocks her head and says, “I’ve been eating too much lately.”
I study her thin frame. “You wouldn’t know that by looking at you.”
She half-smiles. “Thanks, but rice and water sounds about right.”
I look at the menu on the wa
ll. “Are you sure you don’t want something with your rice and water? There’s vegetable plates you could get.”
She surveys the menu. “The chicken fingers look good and so does General Tso’s, and Mountain Dew—that’s what I really want.” Her eyes dim. “But like I said, I’ve been eating too much lately. It’s disgusting.”
The last pokes my memory. “Is this you or your mother speaking?”
Her sad eyes descend from the menu, then cling to me. “Rice and water is about right,” she says. “I’m going to go find us some seats, okay?”
“Are you all right?” I already know the answer.
“Do you wanna sit near the windows?” She eludes the inquiry.
“Sir, are you ready to order?”
I turn to the counter, to the speaker, a smiling Asian man with a strong accent. “One sec, please,” I say, signaling with a pointer finger. When I turn back around, Leigh’s not in line any longer; she’s walking toward the multitude of tables, hanging her head.
I face the counter. “Number five, please.” I lift my eyes to the menu. “And . . . give me an order of chicken fingers and rice, too, please. A Pepsi with mine and a Mountain Dew with the other.”
“Coming right up.”
He grabs a tray and some Styrofoam plates and fills them with the requested food. A guy my age appears from behind the server and sets the sodas on the tray. “Here you go,” says the eldest. “Have a nice day.”
I thank him and start toward the windows, balancing the cluttered tray. I spot Leigh at a table; she’s gazing out the window to her right, her back hunched.
“Hey.” I step to her, set the tray on the table.
Her head swings away from the window. “You’re going to eat all that?” she asks.
I remove my jacket, hang it over the back of the seat, and sit across from her. “Actually,” I say, “half of it’s for you.”
She angles her head, shock-faced. “But I said I only wanted rice and water.”
