He pushed some papers aside and made room for her on the couch, and then sat in a big overstuffed chair with sagging springs across from her.
“I read your book.” He stared at her for a long time while she waited for him to tell her it was garbage and throw her out. She fully expected him to do that. “You need to simplify the beginning. And you need to slow down the last two chapters. You rushed them,” he said critically in a sharp tone, but she had suspected that herself.
“You get too complicated in the second chapter, that slows it down. You can tell them most of that later. Don’t interrupt the pace for your reader.” He picked up her manuscript and showed her several places where he thought she should move sections to later in the book, and as she read it with him, after his comments, she could see that he was right. They were simple changes, but they made a difference in the smooth flow of the book. He got right down to business with her, and had obviously read Blue Steel several times and made detailed notes.
She spent two hours with him. All the suggestions he made were valid, and he had a way of spotting the problems and telling her how to correct them and where to make changes that all seemed reasonable and helpful to her. What he said wasn’t complicated, but it was brilliant.
“Come back next Saturday, after you’ve worked on it. And I like your book, by the way.” It was high praise coming from him, and she was stunned. He hadn’t even offered her a glass of water while she was there. He only cared about the book. “Rose said you’re good. She’s right,” he said simply. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen you. She’s got an amazing eye for talent. See you next week, same time, and bring the outline for the new one,” he closed the door behind her. He seemed in a hurry to get rid of her, and had wasted no time on small talk. But she could tell that the work they’d done that afternoon would make the book much better. It was like giving her book a good cleaning so it shone, and a tune-up. Rose was right to make the suggestion that they work together. Bert was a great editor, and she was flattered that he liked her work. She was curious about him, but he had volunteered nothing about himself, nor asked about her. He was interested only in the book.
She made the corrections he suggested before they met again on the following Saturday, and she brought the new outline with her and a copy of the first chapter to leave with him. He read the changes she’d made to Blue Steel and said he liked them. And then he poured himself a glass of wine, didn’t offer one to her, and made another date for a week later, which was her cue to leave. And as weird as he was, she liked working with him. He really improved her book. She smiled at him, and couldn’t help wondering how he had gotten so rumpled and his house such a mess. He looked like he’d been shipwrecked for years.
Alex couldn’t resist saying something to Rose Porter about him when she called her on Monday to tell her that they had spent two Saturdays together and it had gone well. Alex told her she was sending her a copy of the changes to Blue Steel. Rose was pleased. Bert was the most talented editor she’d ever known and would help Alex hone her skills.
“How was he?” Rose asked, with a faint tone of concern, and Alex wasn’t sure what she meant at first.
“Gruff, cranky, like you said,” Alex said honestly. “But what he said about the book was terrific. All his suggestions made it better, even when they were really simple.”
“That’s why he’s the best editor in the business. Simple is almost always better. It’s about timing and balance and where to put something. His eye for that is uncanny.”
Alex agreed.
“Was he okay otherwise?”
Alex hesitated and then answered her question. “His house looks like a bomb hit it and so does he. But he likes the book and was fine with me. He wasn’t friendly, but he’s not mean or rude. And he’s very focused.”
“Did he get drunk?” Rose asked her bluntly, which startled Alex a little.
“No. He poured himself a glass of wine as I was leaving, but he didn’t drink while we worked, and he was sober.” Alex felt sorry for him when Rose asked the question, and she could easily imagine him getting drunk after she left. “Does he have a problem?”
Rose sighed before she answered. She felt strangely close to this exceptional young woman she had taken under her wing. “He used to, for a while. I think he has it under control now. He had some tough things happen that he never got over. He was one of those confirmed bachelors who never wanted to marry. He was a great editor, and always did some teaching on the side. About twenty years ago, when he was forty, he fell madly in love with one of his students. She was a fantastic writer, a poet, and she wrote historical novels, not at all your kind of thing, but very elegantly done. She was a very talented young woman and they were very happy. But she had a dark side, some writers do. You could see it in her writing. I think there were some family problems, her sister died of cancer or something, and Faye committed suicide. She was twenty-six years old, and it was a terrible waste of a nice woman and a great talent. It always is. It almost killed Bert. I think he stayed drunk for a year. He went back to teaching eventually, but he’s never been the same. He’s still a fantastic editor, but part of him died with her. That was fifteen years ago. He retired a few years back. He’s pretty much been a recluse since she died. Faye was the only woman he ever loved. It’s a sad story, and even if he’s difficult at times, I love him dearly. I’m glad you two got along. He’ll be great to help you edit your books.”
Alex was bowled over by the story and didn’t know what to say at first. “How terrible for him,” she said softly, suddenly more compassionate about how he lived and looked, and how gruff he was. They talked for a few more minutes. Rose said she liked the new outline too, and then they hung up.
—
Alex did her “homework” for Bert again that week, remembering the story Rose had told her about him. And she forgave him easily now when he was cranky with her. He always looked hungover when they met, but he never drank more than a single glass of wine, if any, with her when they were working, although once or twice she saw him pour himself a straight scotch right before she left. And the work they did together was extraordinary with great results. He guided her in the writing of her second novel all through the fall. They had a strong professional relationship but never discussed their personal lives, only her books. He had become her mentor and teacher, and improved her writing immeasurably.
She put the finishing touches on Darkness, her second book, during the Christmas holidays, and on January 2, with Bert’s approval, she sent it to Rose Porter as a finished novel for her to sell to publishers. And she already had an idea for a third. She was becoming a book machine. He teased her about it, but he was proud of her, and so was Rose.
Although Bert didn’t agree with her and said it was a waste of time, she signed up for a creative writing class at school for second semester. She thought it would teach her something to try more varied fiction assignments, but it was a disappointment. There was an arrogant student in the class who criticized her work constantly, and had no talent himself. The teaching assistant was lazy, and the famous writer supposed to teach the class was never there.
She worked on her third book, Hear No Evil, as soon as she finished her second one, during sophomore year, with Bert’s help. Writing-wise, things were going well, although she felt like a loser socially.
She hadn’t joined any clubs or sports teams, and when she got lonely, she went home to the convent for a night or weekend. There was no room for anything but writing in her spare time, so she totally neglected her social life. She said as much to Mother MaryMeg when she’d asked if she was dating, and was surprised she wasn’t. Alex had grown even more beautiful than she had been as a child and young teenager.
“I haven’t met anyone I really like.”
“Do you give yourself a chance to meet anyone, or are you always writing the way you are here?” Alex smiled at her sheepishly, knowing it was true. She worked constantly and loved what she did. Her first two books
hadn’t sold yet, but Rose was sure they would. She had only represented her since September. “Have you thought about what’s going to happen when you get successful?” Mother MaryMeg asked her, seeing that possibility not so far down the road.
“I can buy cuter clothes.” Alex laughed, sounding her age for a minute.
“Aside from that, people will be jealous of you. That may be why the pompous student in your writing class made nasty comments. I’m sure he was jealous of your talent. Envy is a very ugly thing and very dangerous. You have to protect yourself from it every day.”
“That’s why I’m going to publish under a pseudonym,” Alex said innocently. “Then no one will know it’s me. Except you, my editor, and my agent.”
“And what will you tell people you do for a living?” Mother MaryMeg was intrigued.
“I can say I’m an editor, or I write articles or something,” she said vaguely.
“You can’t hide your light under a bushel forever,” the mother superior warned her gently.
Bert said pretty much the same thing when she told him she was going to write under a pseudonym. “Don’t be afraid to be who you are. No one can take that away from you, and they shouldn’t,” he said firmly. He had grown very fond of her in their months of working together, and sometimes treated her more like a daughter than a pupil.
“Women aren’t supposed to write crime,” Alex said stubbornly, still adopting her father’s prejudice as her own. “If I write under my own name, men won’t want to read them.” She had heard it from her father and believed it. She trusted his word and judgment completely. He hadn’t liked female crime writers, and would only buy a thriller written by a man.
“It’s still a men’s club, but not entirely,” Bert conceded. “The problem is that your books are more ‘evil’ than most women write. What name are you going to publish under?” he asked her, curious.
“Alexander Green,” she said proudly. If they wouldn’t let her into the clubhouse as a woman, she could sneak in the window as a man.
“That sounds good,” he said, approvingly. “In some ways you do write like a man, Alex, but whatever you write is going to piss off some people because you’re so damn good at what you do. And male readers will want you to be a man. Maybe you’re right. It may just be easier for you to write under a man’s name.”
“That’s what my dad always told me.”
“I hate to give in to that kind of limited thinking,” Bert said, and then smiled at her. “But Alexander Green it is.” They went on editing then, and corrected a few problems she hadn’t been able to solve herself. He always had the right fixes, and knew just where to insert something, what to cut, and how to move things around. It was still her writing, but he made it better, just as a good editor was supposed to do. He never inserted his own words and ideas, but he used her own to improve it, in ways she hadn’t thought of and didn’t see. They finished Hear No Evil in March. She had three books to sell now. She was a prolific author as well as a talented one.
—
Alex got a call from her agent in April.
“I’ve got good news, Alex. We’ve had an offer for Blue Steel.” She hadn’t shown the other two yet, and wanted to wait till they sold the first one. Alex had to establish herself with one published book first before a publisher would buy more, which Rose had explained to her. And now they had their first sale, to a very reputable publisher offering a standard amount for a first book. They would publish it the next spring, a year from now. And they had accepted that she would do no publicity for it. She couldn’t, and preserve the secret of her identity as a woman crime writer. “I expect to have a contract on my desk by next week.”
Alex couldn’t believe it. She thanked Rose profusely and called Bert to tell him as soon as they hung up. And then she went to St. Dominic’s the next day to tell the nuns in person. She was beaming as she came through the door and told Mother MaryMeg the minute she saw her.
“I sold my book!” she shouted with glee. The mother superior gave her a hug, and Alex ran upstairs to tell the others. She stopped in her room for a few minutes to glance at the photographs of her father. He would have been so proud of her.
She found Sister Regina in her room. She had lost weight in the last few months and looked troubled. She was going to mass frequently and trying to spend more time praying. But so far nothing helped, as she wrestled with the agonizing decision of what to do with the rest of her life. The mother superior was aware of it, and had suggested counseling. She had told her that at some point in most lives dedicated to the church, there came a crisis of some kind, and either a renewal of one’s faith or a change of direction. Sister Regina was still at the crossroads and felt paralyzed, but she was happy for her friend, and her good news about the book. Her career as a writer was beginning.
Alex signed the contract after Bill Buchanan checked it out. They had created a plausible biography for “Alexander Green” by then, and Rose and Alex had fun doing it. He was thirty-six years old, born in the States but had grown up and been educated in England. He was reclusive and lived in Scotland part of the year, and Montana when he came to the States. He preferred the rugged outdoors to cities, was unmarried and had no children, and under no circumstances would he agree to do publicity for the book. There were to be no photographs of him, and the publisher was so excited about the work that they agreed to all of her conditions. They had assigned her an editor, Amanda Smith, with whom Alex would communicate by email, so she didn’t have to see her. And all the real editing had been done by Bert.
As soon as school ended, she moved back into the convent and wrote every day. She was working on a plot outline for another book.
“Are you still writing thrillers that will scare your readers half to death?” Sister Xavier teased her after she missed lunch one day, and she brought Alex a sandwich at her desk and some fresh peaches from the kitchen. It was hot in Alex’s room, as she pounded away on her typewriter, but she didn’t care. She had never been happier.
“I’m trying to.” Alex smiled at her. She had more confidence in herself since selling the first book. Her only frustration was having to wait another ten months before they could sell her second and third books. It seemed like a long wait. She joined them in the dining room that night to take a break from her writing. She told them that she was going to New Hampshire for a week in August, to attend a summer camp for writers she’d read about. There were going to be several well-known guest speakers, and the writers at the camp were mostly unpublished. She thought it would be interesting, but Bert said she’d be wasting her time and her money when she told him. She felt a little more extravagant at the moment, having received the advance for her first book. Rose had explained to her how the advance worked. The publisher estimated what she would make on royalties for a certain number of books. If she sold more, they would pay her the difference. If less, she still got to keep the advance. It sounded good to her.
“What do you need with a writers’ camp, for God’s sake? Stay here and work on your outline,” Bert told her. “They’re going to be a lot of bored wannabes who are never going to write a book, and has-been hacks telling them how to do it.” Bert didn’t believe in creative writing workshops for amateurs. And she was a pro now.
But in spite of his dire warnings, she left for the camp in August. They promised campfires at night, and the simple life in tents, and lectures and workshops all day long to help campers hone their writing skills. The draw for her had been an important mystery writer who was supposed to be there, and she thought meeting him might be interesting and helpful.
But when she got there, the accommodations were incredibly uncomfortable, raccoons wandered through the tents at night, the mosquitoes attacked them constantly and devoured them, and teachers and would-be writers alike spent most of their time having sex or drinking too much, or both. The lectures were incredibly boring, and the well-known mystery writer never showed up, and was replaced by a very good-looking writer in his la
te thirties who had written two pornographic crime books that no one had ever heard of, and it was later revealed he self-published. He spent most of his time trying to seduce the housewives from Connecticut who had come to the camp to learn about more than just writing and went swimming naked at night in the nearby lake after drinking too many mojitos.
The writer’s name was Josh West, and he noticed Alex immediately. She felt out of place the moment she got there, and spent most of her time hiking in the hills surrounding the camp, and avoiding the others. She was startled and a little unnerved when he followed her on one of her walks one day. He approached her when he walked into a clearing as she was sitting on a rock, gazing at the view and trying to decide if she should leave the workshop early.
“You look very serious,” he said. “Am I interrupting a literary meditation?” he asked as he sat down next to her, a little too close for her liking. “It’s good fun being here, isn’t it?” He had a movie star smile and perfect teeth, he had the appearance of someone who worked out a lot, and he had taken his shirt off so she could admire his muscles.
“It’s not exactly what I expected,” she said, although it was precisely as Bert had predicted, much to her dismay.
“What did you expect then?” Josh seemed surprised. Most people loved it there.
“More writing, and a little less ‘fun.’ ” She could hear the others having sex in the tents at night, after they sat around the campfire drinking too much and passing joints around, playing strip poker, or they came back to the camp naked after a swim. It was Sodom and Gomorrah for would-be writers.
The Right Time Page 10
