Chapter 12 #2
Um. Just stab me in the heart, Orchid Lady. Judging by the stunned silence around the circle, I’m not the only one who feels the offense.
“I mean, I’m sure they have their place,” she adds hurriedly.
Sounds to me like she envisions their place as the compost bin.
“Oh, my dear, what an understatement you have set forth,” Bernard says with surprising ferocity and no small amount of spittle.
“If novels had no place in society, our mutual friend Ian here would be conducting his business in a much smaller space, don’t you think?
” Bernard gestures to the rows and rows of books encircling us, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling.
“If everyone thought as you, he might have no business at all. And yet, Sweet Reads is central to town life.”
I nearly applaud. Might even give him a standing ovation if it weren’t for my snugly burrowed bottom.
Good to know Bernard is on the job, ready to defend against the slightest threat of literary insensibility, even if it comes from a nearly six-foot-tall woman hauling around a mountain or three on the inside.
Nytasha’s eyes flash. She opens her mouth to respond, but one glance at Ian appears to make her rethink it. “Touché,” she says, moving her golden cascade back to the other shoulder. “And that would of course be a tragedy. I take it, then, you’re a novelist, Bernard?”
“Novelist?” He chuckles derisively. “I suppose if one need reduce my particular form of storytelling to a single noun. But I prefer to think of myself as a kind of impressionist. Words are my medium, you see. It is my humble duty to convey meaning from beauty in all its forms. Particularly, the intrinsic beauty of romance. Intimacy—between the sexes.”
Bernard caps his speech with a wink in Nytasha’s direction, and she nearly chokes. From my low angle, I enjoy a peripheral view of Wyatt’s rapid series of facial responses. Raised eyebrows. Several blinks. A twitch of movement at the corners of his mouth.
Someone help me out. That really likeable actor with full lips and a chin dimple.
Maybe natural curiosity has no reason. It just is.
A person either has it, or they don’t. Because, for whatever reason, I’m tempted to ask Bernard if there is a Mrs. Vandekamp.
Now that I think about it, curiosity is probably a prerequisite of writing in any form.
For sure, it’s essential for a journalist. Maybe this is why Sam believes in me.
If our fearless leader finds Bernard’s speech at all confounding, he hides it well. “We’re thrilled to have you, Bernard,” Ian says. “Looking forward to hearing from you in the weeks to c—”
“Actually,” Bernard interrupts, slipping a folded page from his blazer pocket, “I brought a piece with me tonight, and I’d be delighted to share—”
“Oh, brilliant,” Ian says. “Yes, that’s, uh, brilliant, Bernard, and we will definitely circle back to that.
But first, to dovetail off your thoughts, if I may be so bold, I would argue that reading fiction”—here Ian cuts a look to Nytasha—“is essential to emotional and relational development.
Human beings are wired for story, and novels contain valuable life lessons.
“In fact,” he continues, “between now and next week, I would challenge each of us to consider the ways we’ve been influenced by fictional stories over the course of our lifetimes. Perhaps we could share our discoveries at the next meeting.”
My thoughts drift to Stoneback’s stories.
Her heroines are flawed. They doubt themselves.
But they ultimately manage to dredge up enough of whatever it is they lack to overcome whatever peril the author throws at them.
So perhaps these books have been working on me at the subconscious level, fueling my resolve to emerge as the heroine in my own life one sunny day.
When I set out to write something, I thought that if I told my story, I’d no longer be controlled by it. I’d move from fear and stuckness to courage and calling. And in the process, others might even be helped. But it’s not turning out that simple.
So why am I even here?
As if reading my mind, Ian says, “Creativity is such an act of courage that it can’t help but breed self-doubt.
We have to accept that the two things will always coexist. That’s why I see this group as more about inspiring and encouraging one another than sharpening our skills.
So, let’s finish by sharing any writerly wisdom you’ve found particularly helpful. Perhaps a favorite quote?”
I appreciate what Ian is trying to do—establish a foundation of trust and camaraderie. And in general, I have to admit I’m enjoying myself. Still, it’s hard to imagine remaining in this Styrofoam-bead butt nest through another round of sharing.
“I have one,” Nytasha says, lifting her chin and pulling her shoulders back. “‘Only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly.’ That’s Bobby Kennedy.”
“Nice,” Ian says.
Sunny clears her throat. “It’s not really a quote about writing, though, is it?”
“Well,” Nytasha says a little testily, “fear of failure kills any kind of forward progress. Creativity included.”
Sunny harrumphs.
“So,” Wyatt says, shifting in his chair next to me, “this isn’t specifically a writing quote either, but one of my favorite authors said, ‘In whatever man does without God, he must fail miserably—or succeed more miserably.’”
A moment ticks by as we all consider this.
“That’s from George MacDonald,” Wyatt adds. “I mean, it’s from over a hundred years ago, but still . . . an idea I try to be guided by—not only in writing, but in life.” He darts a glance at Nytasha. As if concerned she’ll interpret his angle on success as a challenge to hers.
In my mind, Wyatt’s quote is somehow more complete.
Nytasha smiles approvingly, seemingly oblivious to any distinction between their two perspectives. Then again, by the way she’s been running her eyes over Wyatt all evening, I’m guessing she hasn’t got her mind exclusively on building her inner mountain.
“What about you, Lucy?” Ian says. “What motivates you to write?”
Oh, peachy. And yet, after Wyatt’s meaningful quote, my desire to contribute something to the group overrides my normal tendency to opt out. Besides, I’m pretty sure I have a quote written down in my notebook . . .
“I think I have something here,” I say, fishing around in my canvas bag. Sure enough, inside the spiral-bound cover I find a lime-green sticky note I placed there some time ago.
“This is from someone named Julia Alvarez,” I say, then launch into reading my own handwriting out loud.
It’s like my whole world is coming undone, but when I write, my pencil is a needle and thread, and I’m stitching the scraps back together.
My chest burns with unexpected emotion. I stare at the words, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes, aware that a curtain of silence just fell over the room. I feel undressed. Had I remembered what the quote said, I wouldn’t have read it.
Sunny speaks so softly I can barely pick it up. “I rather like that.”
Bernard uncrosses his legs, shifts toward me. His voice is tender. “My dear, if the quote is meaningful for you, then you are a writer if ever there was one.”
A tidal wave of feeling swells in my throat. It’s too much. I need to get out of here. Like, right this second. I swallow hard, then make a show of checking the time.
“Excuse me, please,” I say, hoisting myself out of the beanbag. Yikes. Anyone got a crane? “I need to . . . go. Thank you, Ian.” I rush to gather my things, and I paint on a smile. “It’s been great to meet you all.”
I’m halfway out the door when Savannah catches up to me, holding out a bag with a butter stain leaking through the side.
“Day-olds,” she says, hugging me goodbye. “Please take them. Otherwise they’re going in the trash.”
I may still be better at giving than receiving, but you’ll never catch me turning down free baked goods.
Especially after today.