Love Literary Style Page 2

  Aaron followed the strains of Mendelssohn and paused at a slightly ajar door. He knocked, but the knock was too timid to be heard over the music. He tried again, this time harder. A voice invited him to enter.

  Horace Flowers’ office was probably six times as large as his own. Framed photographs adorned the wall—images of his father posing with several notable authors, although none of them were Nicholas Windust. Windust was so reclusive he refused to pose for an author photo.

  There was a sitting area where tea and tinned butter cookies were sometimes served, but Aaron had never been offered either.

  He nodded a greeting and sat across from his father, who was hunched behind his massive dark-wood pedestal desk, holding his head as if he had a severe migraine. People who didn’t know Horace Flowers well were always asking him if his head hurt, but Aaron knew it was just a mannerism.

  Aaron set his briefcase on his lap as a protective shield and meekly waited for his father to speak. Meetings between them usually had the formality and warmth of a parole hearing.

  Horace Flowers had wispy gray hair, long teeth, and a permanently wrinkled forehead. Disappointment had settled so deeply into the muscles of his face that on the rare occasion he tried to smile, it got swallowed in the sagging folds of his skin. His father switched off the music.

  “How are you, Aaron? Doing well, I trust?”

  “Fine.” Aaron was surprised by his father’s conviviality. Horace Flowers usually dispensed with social preambles and got straight to the point.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea? I had one of the girls in the office make a fresh pot.”

  His father’s uncharacteristic hospitality unnerved Aaron. Why was he being so nice? Had someone died? If so, he couldn’t imagine who. He had a great aunt Priscilla in Iowa City whom he’d only met once or twice. She was their only living relative as far as he knew.

  “No tea for me, thank you,” Aaron said.

  “You’re probably wondering why I asked you here today.”

  “I am.”

  “I had a little extra time this weekend…” His father paused to take a long slurp of tea; all of his motions were deliberate and exacting. Whenever Aaron was in his company, time seemed to sputter to a stop.

  “Would you care for a cookie?”

  “No.” Aaron was feeling more agitated with every second. Please come out with it, he thought.

  “As I was saying, I had some spare time this weekend…”

  Aaron scooted his chair a bit closer to his father’s desk in anticipation.

  “And I read your novel.”

  The tendons in the back of Aaron’s neck went taut, and his briefcase slipped from his lap to the floor. Six months ago his father had asked for a copy of his manuscript and promised he’d peruse it when he had time. It was the second novel Aaron had given his father to read. His previous novel, Klieg, was written during the first semester of his MFA program five years ago. Aaron had been ridiculously proud of that novel, and his fellow workshop members had praised it, but his father said it was amateurish.

  Deeply embarrassed, Aaron immediately deleted the offensive document from his computer. His second novel, Chiaroscuro, took him five years to write, and he felt as if he’d made enormous strides in Craft during that time.

  In fact, nine months ago, he managed to sign with a literary agent. Aaron had no notion how to find an agent—the skill wasn’t taught in school. Thankfully his MFA mentor had recommended Aaron to his own agent. Unfortunately, seven editors had already rejected his novel.

  There was a long silence, so long Aaron felt compelled to prod his father along. “And…?”

  His father stared beyond Aaron’s shoulder as if his next thought was written on the far wall of his office. Then he said “This is exceedingly painful for me.”

  Aaron’s chest hitched. His father wasn’t reticent about speaking his mind. What he had to say must be very, very bad. Aaron splayed his palms across the ridges of his corduroy slacks; his hands seemed oversized and cumbersome, like gloves stuffed with gravel. What did he normally do with them? He couldn’t recall.

  “Your work’s competent.”

  He waited, armpits sweaty with dread, knowing his father had far more to say.

  “But it falls far short of greatness on a number of levels. I’m sad to say that I suspect you were offered literary representation because of our relationship.”

  The tips of Aaron’s ears heated up. When he was distressed they looked severely inflamed.

  “I didn’t mention our relationship to my agent,” Aaron said. He was determined not to be published as Horace Flowers’ son.

  “Someone at the agency obviously found out. It hardly takes any research to discover our relationship.”

  “My agent’s very complimentary about my work.” His voice sounded squeaky, much younger than his twenty-nine years.

  “Son, I think you should withdraw your submission. It’ll never attract the attention of an editor.”

  “You can’t be sure about that.” Aaron decided not to mention the seven rejections.

  “Here’s what I suggest: Apply for the PhD program. I know the deadline’s passed, but one word from me and it’ll be extended.”

  His father had been pushing a PhD on Aaron for over two years. He’d have liked to see his son follow his lead and become a literary critic. The best compliment his father ever gave him was that Aaron’s sense of literary aesthetics rivaled his own. Growing up, Aaron usually bowed to his father’s wishes, but not when it came to writing.

  “I want to be a novelist,” Aaron said. The sentence came out as a near whisper, which sounded wimpy even to him. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. “I am a novelist.”

  His father shook his head; his eyes were filled with pity, which was more distressing than the usual arrogance. “Do you honestly want to be an adjunct the rest of your life, making less than the towel boy at my club?”

  “It’s temporary.” Supposedly seven rejections was a modest number in the publishing world. He once read that Nabokov, author of Lolita, received numerous rejection letters, one which said, “I recommend that [the manuscript] be buried under a stone for a thousand years.” No one had yet to be that scathing about Aaron’s work.

  “I’m trying to save you years of disappointment.”

  “Maybe this novel will sell. Maybe it’ll—”

  “You’re not a terrible writer. And with practice and study you may very well improve. I’ve seen poor writers become mediocre writers, and mediocre writers become serviceable writers. But to elevate a serviceable writer to a brilliant writer, one who deserves a place in the pantheons…” He threw out his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

  Horace Flowers believed there were only four living American novelists writing worthwhile fiction: Philip Roth, Cormac McCarthy, Thomas Pynchon, and Nicholas Windust.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be in pantheons. Maybe I could simply be—”

  “A genre writer?”

  “Of course not! I was thinking of a midlist literary writer.”

  “Not with this novel, and most likely not with the next one either. I’m sorry. There’s something essential lacking in your work.”

  Aaron wanted to ask his father to clarify, but he was afraid to hear the answer, afraid it was something he couldn’t rectify. Being a published novelist was Aaron’s one and only ambition. Writing was all he cared about.

  “You’re absolutely certain about this?”

  The skin around his father’s eyes was wrinkled and pillowed; his irises were so faded they were almost colorless. Yet, weary as his eyes appeared, Aaron knew they could easily discern excellent fiction after reading a paragraph or even a sentence or two.

  “I’m a literary critic,” he said gently. “Novels are my reason for existence. If
I thought my own flesh and blood had the potential for greatness, don’t you think I’d nurture that gift?”

  Aaron sat still in his chair. The office seemed unnaturally quiet, as if it was somehow suspended in outer space instead of being on the floor of a bustling university.

  Horace Flowers said, “Please check your box before you leave campus today.”

  Aaron exited the office and headed to the English department suite. A cluster of students chatted in the halls, obstacles on the way to his destination. “Did you see Comedy Central last night? That guy…what’s his name? He’s hysterical.”

  Aaron limped ahead, pretending he didn’t hear a student misusing the word “hysterical.” Normally he’d stop and say, “Hysterical is not a synonym for hilarious.” But who cared about proper word usage when his reason for existence was falling apart?

  He nearly sideswiped an Asian female custodian emptying a trash bin. She mumbled something in Mandarin, but Aaron forged onward without a second glance. Once in the office suite, the secretary greeted him. Aaron couldn’t even manage his usual head nod. He checked his box. Inside was a manila envelope that contained the admission materials for the PhD program. Aaron held the envelope in his hands for several seconds and then tossed it into the garbage can.

  Two

  Laurie Lee sat on a grassy knoll outside the Central Georgia Library in a suburb outside of Atlanta. A Colonial bread truck rattled by, and the driver honked and yelled, “Hey gorgeous.” She didn’t bother to look up. Catcalls and whistles were the soundtrack of her life.

  She was enjoying the feel of the afternoon sun warming her scalp and the tickle of clover on her bare legs. Laurie was on her lunch break from her temp job as a library assistant, and she was jotting down thoughts about Brock Wilder, the male hero in her romance novel-in-progress.

  Her coworker Ramona arrived for her shift in a battered hearse which she purchased from a bankrupt mortuary. She emerged from the vehicle wearing a t-shirt that said, “Banshees Do It Better.”

  Once Ramona got within hearing range, Laurie said, “Helga’s going to give you grief for that shirt.” Helga was the head librarian and their mutual boss.

  “I have a shirt to cover it in my backpack.” Ramona sat beside Laurie and the smell of licorice drifted over. She liked to chew on fennel seeds.

  Laurie consulted her notebook. “Tell me which description you like better. Piercing sapphire orbs or orbs the color of a South Carolina sky on a June afternoon.”

  “Orbs?”

  “I’m trying to decide what color orbs I should give my hero, Brock.”

  “Why are you calling eyeballs orbs?”

  “Don’t you think it sounds more poetic?”

  Ramona pulled a face, but Laurie paid her no mind. Her coworker wasn’t a writer and didn’t understand the need to vary words now and then. “How’s the proofreading going?” Laurie hired Ramona to proofread the novel she’d completed a few weeks ago.

  “Almost finished.” Ramona popped another fennel seed into her mouth and flicked a section of her shoe-polish black hair over her shoulder.

  “That’s so quick. Thank you. Now I’ll be able to make my deadline.”

  “I don’t understand. Why do you have a deadline when you self-publish your books?”

  “You mean indie publish.”

  Laurie thought “indie publishing” sounded more appealing than self-publishing. Some bold writers were even calling it artisanal publishing, which made their books sound like very fine cheese or chocolate. But maybe that was a little pretentious.

  “It’s my own deadline,” Laurie continued. “But I’m strict about keeping to it.”

  She waited for Ramona to say something complimentary about her novel, but instead of offering praise, her coworker withdrew a long-sleeved black shirt from her backpack. She flapped it to smooth out the wrinkles, and a musty odor rose from the fabric.

  Laurie couldn’t stand it a second longer. “What did you think?”

  “About what?”

  “My novel, silly.”

  Ramona put on the shirt, pulled up a section of the fabric to her nose, and took a long contemplative sniff.

  “Were you disappointed that no one gets bitten in the neck?” Laurie said in a teasing voice.

  Ramona was a fan of paranormal romances; the covers were usually either blood-red or a deep moody blue, and the artwork featured pale brooding people with dead, soulless eyes. Laurie got goosebumps every time she encountered one.

  Her coworker poked at a scab on her forearm. “I don’t read vampire novels anymore. Nobody does.”

  “Is that so?” It was almost impossible to keep up with all the various trends in romance. There were so many. Recently Laurie discovered Amish romance, or bonnet rippers as they were called.

  “But, in answer to your question, I found your characters to be somewhat unrealistic.”

  Laurie quirked an eyebrow. It seemed odd that someone who liked to read about werewolf sex could accuse her of writing unrealistically.

  “Well, I am writing a romantic comedy, so the characters are supposed to be a little broad.”

  Ramona slapped at a housefly on her arm and missed.

  “Think of Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde.”

  The fly landed on Ramona’s lace-up boot, and this time her palm flattened it.

  “Or Sandra Bullock in—”

  “I don’t watch romantic comedies.”

  “Oh.” Laurie couldn’t imagine that. She watched them so frequently she considered herself a rom-com expert.

  “And maybe broad characters work better in movies?” Ramona hefted herself off the ground. “I better go in. Don’t want Helga on my case.”

  “Wait. What about the hero, Brock? Surely you liked him?” Brock was Laurie’s own personal masterpiece. She got a little woozy just thinking about his crooked grin and superb kissing techniques.

  “He was too perfect.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing? If you want imperfect, why bother reading romance? You can simply go to a singles’ bar and flirt with a guy who picks his teeth with a knife.”

  “Brock was so perfect he was unbelievable.”

  Laurie disagreed. She wanted to defend Brock as if he were her own husband.

  “And the conflicts seemed manufactured and a little silly.”

  “But it’s a romantic comedy. A certain amount of silliness is inevitable.”

  “Maybe. But to be honest, I had the most problems with Lily.”

  “Lily?” Laurie inhaled sharply. “What was wrong with her?”

  “She was too wimpy and eager to please. I like strong female protagonists.”

  Laurie’s cheeks felt hot and not from the sun. She’d based the character of Lily on herself. In fact, all of her main characters were loosely based on herself.

  “Maybe she’s just very girlish?”

  “Maybe,” Ramona said, a tad reluctantly. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “No. I appreciate the honesty. Truly I do.”

  Actually, she cringed from the honesty. Mostly because she desperately wanted to be a good writer. It was so magical to create characters and settings, all from her imagination. And Laurie had been working on her writing for six months. That was practically a lifetime for her. Her late grandmother used to say to her, “You have the attention span of a two-year-old who’s just gobbled a sugar cookie.”

  That wasn’t completely untrue, but that’s because her grandmother had pressed activities on Laurie that she didn’t much care for. Calligraphy. So tedious. Needlepoint. No, thank you. Still, if she didn’t get some validation for her writing soon she might lose heart.

  Break over, Laurie returned to the library and went about her duties smiling at patrons, checking out books, and collecting
fines. She tried not to think about what Ramona said, but every now and then, the criticism rose up in her consciousness like dirty water from a backed-up sink.

  Six months ago she’d stumbled across an article about a romance writer who made a fine living selling self-published novels over the internet, and, to Laurie, it seemed like a missive from heaven. How many times had she watched a bad rom-com or read a novel and thought, good Lord, I could do better writing with the tip of my nose?

  Laurie was perfectly poised to be a romance writer. She devoured at least a dozen romance novels a month (particularly funny ones) and had seen practically every romantic comedy in existence, even the dispiriting ones like Fool’s Gold (What was Kate Hudson thinking?) and that awful one where Patrick Dempsey dressed up as a bridesmaid.

  Did she know how to write novels? Frankly, no. That was the single hitch in her plan. Yet she was determined to learn.

  After reading the article, she immediately ordered Romance Writers’ Phrasebook and had been writing romance novels ever since. She believed she was improving every day and was particularly proud of the one she’d recently finished. That’s why it bothered her so much that Ramona didn’t like it.

  A young black woman with a prominent overbite and springy chocolate-colored hair came up to Laurie’s desk. She asked if the library had Toni Morrison’s latest.

  Laurie consulted her computer and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t see any of his books in our system.”

  “He is a she.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry but we don’t have any of her books either.”

  The girl flared her nostrils. “What kind of library doesn’t have Toni Morrison?”

  Actually, it was a small library, and it mostly served a nearby retirement village. The majority of patrons were older women who wore track suits and padded about in spongy-soled shoes. They favored romances and mysteries. Currently there was a fifty-person hold on the latest Mary Higgins Clark.