Chapter 8 The Darlings
The Darlings
Although Sam’s fears were real, she had not fibbed to William: She had never shared her writer problems with anyone; she was
a literary island of one. Hank had understood creativity, of course, but because Hank as a photographer wrote with light and
Sam with words, their artistic empathy had been limited. There were the guys from Sam’s graduate program, but although Sam
had found great camaraderie there, she’d been the only woman in a workshop with eight men who wanted to be Raymond Carver
or Faulkner, and she would have died before admitting any insecurity. That left Mireille and Patricia, and although Sam turned
in rough-draft pages to them, of course, she preferred to get them as right as possible first. Sam thought of herself as Charlotte
in the web: What good would it have done if the spider’s promotion of her endangered pig friend had said HUM instead of HUMBLE?
Before her dinner with William, Sam had not confessed her troubles to . . . anyone. Ever.
Therefore it was a first that Sam was now navigating the corridors of the Portsmouth, NH, Marriott, seeking the Emerson Ballroom,
which she knew she’d found when she came to this sign:
THE DARLINGS
Meeting here tonight, 6 p.m.!
Sam checked her phone. It was 6:45; she’d planned for rush-hour traffic leaving the city but not the tremendous pile-up on
I-95. Was it even worth going in? It was, she decided. She hadn’t told William she was coming to this meeting, wanting to
surprise him—and just maybe to make sure he wasn’t working the crowd for donations in a rhinestone-spangled evangelist suit—but
she also had to admit she could use some assistance on her novel, if even by osmosis. She eased open the door and slipped
in.
The ballroom was almost full, the chairs at the round tables occupied. It looked more like a popular event at a literary conference
than a support group. Everyone was listening to a dude with a beard bun at the podium, confessing that his agent had ghosted
him. There was a lot of nodding. Sam saw William at a front table, head cocked in an attitude of attention. He was in khakis
and a light blue button-down shirt today, and something else was different—he had shaved his goatee! He looked handsome and
a bit hammy, the exposed pink expanse of his face featuring a strong jaw and the hint of a double chin. Sam loved it. She
imagined rubbing her cheek against his now smooth one and had a full-body convulsion of desire.
“So yeah, man, I don’t know what to do,” said the beard-bun guy at the mic.
“It took me, like, seven years to write this novel, and now my agent said she can’t sell it because appropriation.
Just because there’s a gay female POV character?
I mean, she’s based on my moms! If we can only write about ourselves now, what are we supposed to do?
Just write nonfiction? Whatever happened to making
shit up? It’s a shit time to be a male author, I can tell you that.”
This statement was a super-easy sell among most of the men in the room, who were nodding, and not so much among the women
or nonbinary writers, who leaned toward each other to murmur comments, smirked, or just sat. Sam felt for the beard-bun guy;
everything he was saying was true, and also it was high time the men didn’t have the head of the table.
“Anyway, if anyone out there has any male agent intel or could pass on my name, I’d be grateful.
Thanks.” He flashed a peace sign. William stood and gave him a bro-hug, two seconds and a back clap.
Sam wondered if William would speak in response, since he was an obvious and mighty exception to both the prohibition on writing from another gender’s POV and being a threatened species as a white male writer. Instead, he checked his watch.
“I think we have time for one more share,” he said, and to Sam’s shock she recognized the woman who waved her arms like a
potential game-show contestant, calling: “Me! Me!” It was one of Sam’s own workshop novelists, Tabitha.
“I cede the floor to our enthusiastic friend from table nine,” said William. Sam tried to catch Tabby’s eye as she made her
way to the front of the room, but Tabby didn’t see her. Was it Tabby? Yes: barely taller than the podium, late fifties, naturally red cheeks, black hair with distinctive white streaks.
Dressed in a pretty flowered skirt and pink blouse. Sam hadn’t even known Tabby was struggling.
Tabby adjusted the mic to her mouth level. “Damn thing,” she said, to chuckles. “It’s hard to be short. Hi, I’m Tabitha, and
I’m a novelist—I guess. Am I still a novelist? That’s the question. You all listen and decide. All I know is, I’ve wanted to write fantasy ever since
I was a little girl—anyone else? Okay, thank God. All you fantasy geeks, meet me up front after.
“It took me a long time to get started. My parents wanted me to be anything but a writer. A doctor. A teacher. Mostly a wife
and mother. That’s what I did—got married and had kids. I was a journalist before that—kind of a strange job for someone who
loves fantasy, but I figured it was a way to write and make a living.
I was a reporter for the Boston Sun, and once the kiddos were born, I wrote for women’s mags, Good Housekeeping and Real Simple.
It paid the bills and I could be home with my munchkins.
I bet some of you ladies know what I’m talking about.
“But I never stopped wanting to write fantasy, and after my youngest was in high school, I joined this workshop. The teacher was a bestselling author, Sam Vetiver, and you had to submit pages to get in. Boy, was I scared. I thought she might be too fancy-pants for somebody like me who hadn’t written fiction since college.
But she must have been on drugs or something, because she let me in. ”
Sam wanted to leap to her feet and give Tabitha the boxing salute, or at least cup her hands around her mouth and yell YO TABBY! She kept quiet. She wanted to hear how her workshop had failed Tabitha so much that she was here. Sam was at least gratified
to see William smile at the mention of her name.
“The workshop has been a real lifeline,” Tabby continued, and Sam deflated in relief. “I’ve been in it for twelve years. Some
of the writers have been in it even longer. We stay in until we finish books, then send them out, then come back in to start
new ones. I wrote all my books in that class. I published my first book when I was forty-one, and now I have four of them,
a trilogy and a spinoff. If you’re lucky, you know how it feels to have a crew.”
Sam told herself, DO NOT CRY. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth.
“So what am I doing here?” Tabby said. “First of all, I read about the Darlings in the Sun and I thought: What a great idea. Writers need all the support they can get. Thanks to our famous friend here.” She smiled
at William, who dipped his head. “But also, there’s something my workshop can’t help with. I’m not sure anyone can. It’s this:
All my books were published by the Big Five. Well, when I started it was the Big Twelve. Not anymore. Anyway, they stopped
selling my backlist. I went out of print.
Then my editor got fired. My agent left to become a yoga instructor.
I have a track record. I was a regional bestseller.
Once I walked into Costco and there was a wall of my books.
And now? I can’t get a single agent or small press to even answer my queries. I just get those bouncebacks,
Thanks for reaching out, we’ll be in touch soon.”
“Preach, sister,” somebody called. Tabby pushed her glasses up on her nose.
“Langston Hughes asked what happens to a dream deferred,” she said.
“What I want to know is, what happens when you get your dream and it dies? . . . I guess you just have to find joy in what you started out with: the writing. Because that’s all we can do.
” She punched a fist in the air as she left the podium. “Good luck, everyone! Go Sox.”
She stood on tiptoe to hug William as he came to the podium. “Joy in the writing,” he said. “May that be true for all of us.
See you next time, friends.”
Sam watched Tabby grinning for a photo with William. She felt gutted. It wasn’t just that Tabby had been enduring this heartache,
and Sam hadn’t known, or that Tabby’s career decline was familiar, or that Sam was worried about suffering the same fate—though
all of those things were true. Although Sam’s track record insulated her somewhat, she was suspended, like most writers, over
the same chute. But what really struck Sam was that Tabby was right. Joy in the writing! When was the last time Sam had felt
that? She honestly could not remember.
Tabby spotted her then and came over. “Look who’s here! Did you hear my shout-out to you? What are you doing here? You don’t
need this group!”
“You’d be surprised,” said Sam. They hugged. “I feel so bad, Tabby. I didn’t know you were going through all this. Why didn’t
you tell me?”
Tabby shrugged. “You’re so busy and important, I didn’t want to bother you.”
Sam laughed, although she felt awful. “First of all, I’m not important. Stop believing everything you read on social media.
Second, I’m never too busy. I’m doing the same thing you are. I’m just like you!”
“Okay,” said Tabby, though she didn’t seem convinced. “So how was your tour?”
“Good. Over now.”
“And you’re working on the new book? How’s that going?”
“Why do you think I’m here?”
Tabby looked around at the writers, the women in dresses or casual wear, the guys in T-shirts and beards, jockeying for position around William.
They would be asking him for introductions to his agent or editor, Sam knew, or handing him their manuscripts to pass on.
“You were gonna talk about your problems in this crowd? I can’t imagine that. ”
Me neither, thought Sam, but she hoped that was because she was unaccustomed to writerly confession, not pride. Drishti would
say, Get humble, kid. Ask for help. You’re no different from anyone else, no worse but no better, either. “I’m more here to procrastinate.”
Tabby laughed. “I hear that. Do you want to get some dinner?”
“I would,” said Sam, glancing in William’s direction, “but . . .”
“Ohhhhh!” said Tabby. Her face lit up. “Now I get it. Teacher’s got a new beau!”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Not really. We’re just getting to know each other.”
Tabby nudged Sam with her elbow. “You better hop to it, missy. Looks like you’ve got competition.” She meant the women clustered
around William, including the one taking a selfie with him now: a brunette in skinny jeans and a tank top that said ms. write.
Tabby squinted assessingly at William. “I can see it. He’s cute. Just check his . . . you-know.” She crooked her forefinger
and made it wilt toward the floor with a corresponding sound: wah, wah, wah. “At our age, you never know. But you can always slip some Viagra in his drink.” She yelled, “Hey, William! Look who’s here!”
“Tabby!” Sam hissed. The remaining writers turned. William’s face split in that delighted grin. It’s you! he mouthed. Sam gave an embarrassed tiny wave.
“You’re welcome,” said Tabby. “I expect a full report.”
They hugged again, and Tabby left. William, moving within a small amoeba of lingering acolytes, came toward Sam. “Simone!”
he said. “What an excellent surprise.”
He bent to kiss Sam on the lips—just as delicious as before, except better without the scratchy goatee. Sam could feel his
admirers watching, and sure enough, although two of the women drifted off toward the door, ms. write was still there giving Sam the stink eye.
“Melody,” said William, one arm around Sam, “this is Sam Vetiver. I’m sure you’ve heard of her.” Melody shrugged, compressing her cleavage. “The Sharecropper’s Daughter, The Sodbuster’s Wife—no? Among the best novels of our generation.”
“I didn’t even pay him to say that,” said Sam, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Melody looked at Sam’s hand. “Anyway,” she said to William, “I’ll email you my query, okay?” She sashayed away.
Sam and William both watched her go, hips swinging in the tight jeans like a pendulum in a clock. “Wow,” said Sam. “You are
one popular piece of writer man meat.”
William laughed. “Ground chuck at best. Thank you for saving me from the frying pan.”
“You owe me,” said Sam. She was lifting her hand to touch his smooth face when somebody fell over a chair a few feet away,
grunting in pain. They both looked up, and William thrust Sam away from him so quickly that she stumbled.
“You!” William shouted at the woman, who had picked herself up and was bolting for the exit. “I know you! Come back here.
Don’t you dare run off again!”
The woman dove for the door as William zigzagged through the maze of tables. She was short and round with a pink bob and a
camouflage trucker’s cap, and something about her looked familiar to Sam. As William chased her into the hall, Sam realized
why: It was the woman from William’s Boston reading, the unimpressed one with the cascading blond curls. There was no mistaking
her overbite.
“I told you what would happen if I caught you again,” William was yelling as he sprinted after her. Sam heard him bellowing
in the hallway. “I see you! I know you can hear me! I’m taking photos, I’m calling the police!”