Chapter Thirteen #2
Petra on the blue sofa and Ross in the little armchair where he usually sat.
“I think they’re perfectly fine, providing all the participants are consenting adults who aren’t hurting anyone.”
“Idiot.”
“I did the rounds,” Ross admitted. “Back in the day . . .”
“It was only five years ago,” Petra reminded him. “You make it sound like ancient history.”
“Five years is a long time in publishing,” he said.
“You know that. Anyway—yeah—I sat in drafty tents, debating the future of the literary novel—mostly whether or not it had one—with a bunch of other writers. That bit was quite fun actually. But then there’s a lot of sitting around at signing tables wondering if anyone is going to want to even buy your book, let alone ask you to sign it. ”
Petra made a disbelieving noise. “Like you sat there wondering where the fans were,” she scoffed. “I bet they had to add security to hold back the crowds.”
“Yeah, okay, I was lucky,” Ross admitted. “But I knew other writers—other completely superb writers—who sat for hours, signing pen poised,
watching the tumbleweeds blow by.”
Petra glanced over at him, alerted by the sudden gloom in his voice. He was staring, unseeing, into the fire, the flames illuminating
his ridiculously beautiful cheekbones, but casting his eyes into shadow so she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“There are good books that don’t get the airtime they deserve,” she agreed. “But that wasn’t you, so why . . . ?”
“Was it even a good book though?” he demanded, suddenly animated, turning to face her, eyes blazing. “Who says it was a good
book? Who decides? Do they even know? Who are the book police who decree which writer floats to the top of the pile and who
spends years and years slaving away invisibly?
“When it’s all so arbitrary, what does success even mean?”
Petra sighed. “I totally agree with you,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “As an agent, I only represent people whose
work I really believe in, but we all know good work isn’t enough. There’s luck in it as well, and—you’re right—the mavens
who control the marketing budgets, they can make a book or break it—”
“Exactly,” said Ross, pointing straight at her. “Exactly. My editor. She made my book. Whether I felt it was good or bad—whether anyone else felt it was good or bad—that’s all irrelevant. My editor decided my book was going to sell well, and she made decisions
accordingly.” He broke off, rubbing his face in his hands wearily.
“I’m not sure an editor’s as powerful as all that,” said Petra, feeling that he was being a tiny bit weird. Who the hell was this editor? “You wrote the book after all, not her,” she said gently.
“You say that . . .” he said, clearly not believing her for a minute, but too polite to call her out on it. “It just leaves me,” he
broke off, shrugging. “It just leaves me not knowing . . . Am I a good writer, or a crap writer who got lucky? A crap writer
with a pretty face?” He gazed unseeing at Petra, and then he shrugged, sighing with what sounded like despair. “Not being
able to answer that question is driving me a little bit ’round the bend at the moment,” he admitted, smiling apologetically
at Petra.
“This is such black-and-white thinking,” said Petra gently. “Look,” she said, engaging him, forcing eye contact, “what happens to all the
other superb writers—all the writers who never get the time in the limelight they deserve? You didn’t stop them from being successful. You didn’t fraudulently take anyone else’s place. The book you wrote was objectively amazing,” she said firmly. “I read it. It
changed my way of looking at the world, and my memory of it still makes me look at the world differently. How many other writers
can do that?”
“Loads,” he insisted. “You’ve just never heard of them, that’s all.”
“I get that,” Petra told him softly. “But it does not detract from what you wrote. You’ve got to stop thinking that way.”
Ross sighed. He raised a smile with conspicuous effort.
“Thank you, Doctor Petra,” he said. “Who’d work with writers, eh?
Neurotic or what? Sorry . . .” He hung his head, apparently exhausted suddenly.
“You’re literally the only one I can have this conversation with.
Anyone not in that world would—quite rightly—think I’m an ungrateful brat. Nice problem to have, right?”
“Don’t apologize,” said Petra. “It’s understandable. You’re stuck in your own head, day in, day out, finding a way to express
ideas. And it’s all so that readers can experience things they have never done before; so they can maybe see the beauty in
something ugly; or understand their own pain better; or see their own life experiences shared by a writer in a way that makes
them feel less alone . . . God knows, we all need that. We need writers to do that for us.”
Ross scoffed. “You make me sound like a superhero.”
“Yeah? Well,” said Petra briskly. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
She was sympathetic, sure. But there had to be an end to the self-pity somewhere along the line.
By Tuesday, Petra was beginning to doubt the wisdom of every word she had said in response to Ross’s disclosures. In her normal
clumsy way, she had probably said all the wrong things. She couldn’t help revisiting the look on his face, his despair and
confusion. Whoever this editor was, whatever she did, something horrible had clearly occurred and he seemed genuinely traumatized