Chapter 14 A Cocktail of Novelists
A Cocktail of Novelists
If a bunch of cardinals is called a radiance, turkey hens a harem, and crows a murder, then a roomful of novelists, Sam thought,
should be called a cocktail. She made this observation every Wednesday night, when she stepped off the elderly elevator that
stopped, disconcertingly, four inches above or below the top floor of an old building overlooking the Boston Common and heard
her workshop all the way down the hall. They’d been put in the last classroom to minimize disturbance to the other writers,
but it was futile. It wasn’t the memoirists, poets, or the Writer Moms Mafia making all the noise. It was Sam’s novelists.
She paused outside the door, smiling. From within came a kind of froth and roar: the writers shouting, laughing, bellowing past each other, and somebody—probably Cleo Whittyre—belting opera.
These were Sam’s people. She had been teaching this class since she’d gotten her MFA, and she’d never missed one.
Not even when she’d been living in the Little House in the Berkshires with Hank; not when he was in jail or on benders or on the ward.
Sam had made the six-hour round-trip drive because she knew how rare it was to find others who got it; who understood how important it was to sit in a room alone and download imaginary people and their stories; who believed in each other’s characters and made them real.
There had never been a time, no matter what else was happening, that Sam hadn’t walked into her classroom and walked out again feeling better.
When they were all gathered around the table, the power of faith was levitational, and Sam sometimes looked around and thought: This is what love is.
Sam went in and unpacked her laptop. Nobody paid the slightest bit of attention. The novelists went right on laughing, talking,
shouting, singing. They were wearing skull-and-crossbones eye patches, and it took Sam a minute to realize why: The heroine
of tonight’s historical novel was a pirate. Sam’s workshop took support to a new level.
“AVAST YE, NOVELISTS,” she called, and toggled the light switch near the door. This got results, and the novelists began sifting
down into their chairs.
“Hi boss,” said Tabby, sliding an eye patch down the table to Sam. “I ordered them from the giant bookselling conglomerate
that shall not be named.”
“That was thoughtful,” said Sam. She put on her eye patch. It stank of rubber and the elastic cut into her cheek. “Are these
for children, by any chance?”
“Yep. Sorry. I couldn’t find any adult ones.”
“That’s surprising,” said Iowa Jones.
“Is it, though?” said Daisy.
“Sure! Think of all that pirate porn,” said Iowa.
“And a new niche industry is born,” said Cleo. She and Iowa high-fived. Sam was grateful Iowa and Cleo hadn’t shown up in
bawdy wench costumes.
“Where’s Amelie?” Sam asked. Amelie was the author being workshopped tonight.
“I was about to ask you that,” said Tabby. “It’s weird she’d be late to her own workshop.”
“Maybe she’s late because it’s her workshop,” suggested Joe.
“Har harrrrr,” said Sam. She helped herself to some Pirate’s Booty and parrot-shaped frosted cookies. Workshop was fattening.
“Has anyone heard from her?”
The novelists checked their phones and laptops.
Demurrals all around. Sam was surprised and a little concerned.
She’d been late, partly because of sending William the pantsless selfie he’d requested as she left her apartment, which took thirty seconds to snap and five minutes to airbrush for cellulite, but mostly because, mindful of her stalker, Sam had taken a roundabout route.
She knew that if the Rabbit or William’s complication really wanted to get to Sam, they would, but she’d thought: You want to tail me?
Fine, I’ll make it hard for you. She left her building by the rear door, navigated her neighborhood through a network of alleys, snuck into the Ritz via the
staff entrance, and popped out into the Public Garden, through which she zigzagged to class. If anyone was following her,
Sam had given her a run for her money.
Workshop started at six, and it was now six thirty. The novelists were sometimes late because of traffic or parking, and once
the guy being workshopped had shown up so inebriated that Sam had to escort him out. But never, in Sam’s sixteen years teaching,
had a writer missed class the night her novel was on the table.
“Let’s give her a few more minutes,” Sam said.
“I have an idea in the meantime,” said Tabby. “Let’s go around and vent, like I did at this amazing support group I went to
that’s run by . . . drumroll . . . our teacher’s new beau!”
“Wait wait wait,” said Jake. “Bow?”
“Beau,” said Lavinia, laughing. “As in love interest.”
“Oh,” said Jake. “I thought you meant bow as in crossbow.”
“Or bow-tie pasta,” said Chuck.
“None of you has any romantic soul,” said Tabby.
“I do!” said Sunny, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “Who’s the beau?”
“Yeah, who’s the lucky man?” said Cooper.
“Oh my God, you guys,” said Sam.
“Wait for it,” said Tabby. She cupped her hands around her mouth and stage-whispered, “WILLIAM. CORWYN.”
Daisy squinted. “Isn’t he that uber-bestselling dude who writes as a woman?”
“You’re dating a cross-dresser?” said Joe to Sam.
“Noooo,” said Lavinia. “His protagonists are women.” She turned her laptop to the room, the screen showing William’s Wikipedia page.
“Ohhhhhhh, that guy,” said Daisy. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”
“Me too,” said Sunny. “Isn’t he pretty famous?”
“This is not a good use of our workshop time, people,” Sam said.
“Hair, acceptable, check,” said Iowa. “Teeth, check. Stern yet pensive expression, check.”
“Bro has like 14K reviews on Goodreads for his latest book!” said Jake, eyes popping. “And it just came out this month!”
“And some not very nice ones,” said Cooper. “I hate the way this guy writes—did he swallow a dictionary? One star.”
“I didn’t actually read this book,” read Daisy, “but I don’t think I’d like it. One star.”
“My copy arrived damaged!” read Birdy, laughing. “Oh, buddy. One star!”
“But thousands of good ones,” said Jake. “And The New Yorker calls him The Virtuoso.”
“Oh my,” said Sunny, fanning herself.
“Virtuoso, play my heartstrings!”
“Virtuoso, tickle my ivories!”
“Arrrr, that’s for piano.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You are all beyond help,” said Sam, as the novelists continued their William roast. “I’m going to step out and call Amelie.
Stalk amongst yourselves.”
In the hallway she permitted herself a snicker and pulled out her phone.
There was a text from the man himself: Thanks for the delectable photo, sugarplum.
You know what’s missing? My handprint, right on your—Sam swiped this away before she could get distracted.
Nothing from Amelie. Sam looked up Amelie’s number—unlike the rest of her novelists, who’d worked together for years, Amelie was a recent addition to class.
All Sam knew was that Amelie was mid-forties-ish, quiet, with tattoo sleeves and black hair so shiny it looked oiled, and that her historical pirate series had been published by a small press before it went under.
Her goal was to bring her buccaneer to the Big Five, and Sam thought it was possible. Amelie had talent.
Amelie’s phone went straight to voicemail. Sam scrolled quickly through Amelie’s social to see if she’d taken an ill-timed
road trip. Amelie’s profile photo showed her wearing a leather bustier and clenching a cutlass between her teeth at something
called PirateCon. “Whoa,” said Sam. Apparently shy Amelie had a whole different life outside of class. But the conference
had been a year ago, and Amelie’s last post, about a romance panel, was a month old. Sam went back into the classroom.
The novelists had tired of William and were now playing that ever-popular game, The Top Ten Things Writers Least Like to Hear
at Parties. What’s your book about? . . . Have you written anything I might have read? . . . Are you any good? . . . Can I buy your book
in stores? . . . Can you actually make a living as a writer? . . . I always wanted to write a novel, but I never found time . . .
Maybe you could write my novel for me! . . . I have a book for you to write! Sam smiled around at the bright, beloved faces. If they only knew! What would they say, her people, if they knew how paralyzed
Sam was, that even after over twenty years of being in this business, her position was so precarious? Not just because of
the industry but because of her own doubt. Although Sam of course had not mentioned it to Mireille or Patricia, The Gold Digger’s Mistress felt pretty much DOA. William’s idea—or rather Sam’s upcycled concept, the historical novel about the rumrunner—that might
have legs. Sam wasn’t sure. She’d started kicking the idea around with William, on FaceTime and on the phone, test-driving
the ideas while he listened attentively. What if it’s near the Great Lakes, so the rumrunner is importing moonshine from Canada? What if it were set during Prohibition? It was productive, and yet Sam still felt uncomfortable, as if she were wearing ill-fitting clothes. She just wasn’t sure
what she was going to do, which novel she would bring to Patricia at their New York meeting, and that meant she might be on
the verge of torpedoing her career.
“What’s up, boss?” said Jake, and Sam realized the room had gone quiet.
“Just checking again to see if I’d heard from Amelie.”
“Anything?” said Chuck, and Sam shook her head.
“I hope nothing bad happened to her,” Birdy said with vigor. “Should we go check?”
“I will if I haven’t heard from her by tomorrow,” said Sam. “Meanwhile, it’s almost eight, so why don’t we adjourn to the
Park Plaza and do some readings?”
“Thank God,” said Jake, ripping off his eye patch. “This thing was squeezing my head.”
He stopped by Sam’s chair as the novelists were packing up. “Hey, boss, you sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly. He regarded
her keenly from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. “You seem a little . . . something. New love?”
Sam smiled. “Just a lot going on.”
“Listen,” said Jake. “I know you’re a grown-ass woman and big-time author and all, but know this: If that Corwyn dude’s a
player, I got you. We all got you.”
“Thanks, bro.”
Jake squeezed Sam’s shoulder and headed for the door. “See you at the bar,” he called.
“You mean the barrrrrr,” said Iowa, and they all filed out.