it.”
“You probably don’t have to go to dinner.”
“You do, if you want to eat. Anyway, I leave those places to brill back there.”
Jamie Flynn, disheveled and staring eyed, as if she’d just got up in a place she had no claim on and was trying to discover where she was, made more money than all of them put together—and this was a poor comparison, since all of them put together were not even within shooting distance of Jamie’s royalties. Jamie wrote genre fiction, every kind of genre—mystery, science fiction, horror—but, naturally, used a pseudonym from her treasure trove of pseudonyms. She always published two or three books a year, and one year had done four.
What staggered Jamie was that Saul could write and write and then shove the manuscripts all in a drawer instead of shoving them across an editor’s desk. Any publisher would grab a new book by Saul. And here he was, not making money at it (except for the royalties—meager, but still coming for The End of It ) after ten years.
Saul had said, “I haven’t finished one of those books, Jamie.”
She snorted. “Put a period.”
Saul had laughed and told her that was the best advice he’d ever been given. But he was sick, neurotic, decrepit, and he couldn’t do this.
Jamie couldn’t understand it. “You don’t think an editor would notice, do you? Besides, who in hell would ever actually have the almighty gall to ‘edit’ one of your books? What, you think a reviewer would figure out you never finished it? Don’t make me laugh.”
Jamie’s view of writing was completely outer directed, reader directed. She never entertained the notion that writing had nothing to do with money. Ned had said this once and Jamie had gazed at him, eyes wide with shock. How could he say that? Was he nuts?
“Look at Saul.”
“Saul has money.”
“Whether he’s got money or not,” Ned had gone on, “do you think money would motivate him? Saul? And what about b. w. brill and the others?”
“They’re poets, for God’s sakes! Everyone knows you can’t make money writing poetry. Unless you’re famous for something else, unless you’re a celebrity-poet, and how many of those are there? The only famous poet’s mostly a dead poet.”
“We’re not talking about fame; we’re talking about money.”
“Funny how the two of them go together. ‘Rich and famous,’ it’s a lock.” Jamie drank her boilermaker. That’s what she did these days, tossed back the whiskey in one gulp, then went for the beer.
Ned wondered: when was the last time he’d ever heard of boiler-makers? Had he ever seen anyone drink one except for Jamie? For all of her money talk, for all of her disdaining the past, Ned thought Jamie was mired in it. In old times. He suspected Jamie’s considerable output masked a considerable loss, one she could no longer sustain. He often wondered what it was. The death of someone, of course. Father? Mother? It was hard to get Jamie to talk about her past.
It was always coming at you, thought Ned, forcing you down paths you would never otherwise have gone.
She went on: “And all of that ‘writing-is-torture’ stuff, Saul. I’m amazed you’d stoop that low.”
Saul raised his beer in a sort of salute. “Jamie, I wish I had half your confidence.”
She dropped her head in her hands, shook it. “Christ, this from a man who’s won the Pen/Faulkner, the National Book Award, the New York Critics’ Award, and blah blah blah.” She lifted her head and looked at him. “Do you really expect me to believe you need my confidence?”
“No.”
“Haven’t you ever had writer’s block?” Ned asked. “Even when you were starting out?”
“Why should I? Why should anybody? You can’t be blocked if you just keep on writing words. Any words. People who get ‘blocked’ make the mistake of thinking they have to write good words. I look at words the way whoever wrote Field of Dreams looked at that damned baseball field. ‘Write it,
“You probably don’t have to go to dinner.”
“You do, if you want to eat. Anyway, I leave those places to brill back there.”
Jamie Flynn, disheveled and staring eyed, as if she’d just got up in a place she had no claim on and was trying to discover where she was, made more money than all of them put together—and this was a poor comparison, since all of them put together were not even within shooting distance of Jamie’s royalties. Jamie wrote genre fiction, every kind of genre—mystery, science fiction, horror—but, naturally, used a pseudonym from her treasure trove of pseudonyms. She always published two or three books a year, and one year had done four.
What staggered Jamie was that Saul could write and write and then shove the manuscripts all in a drawer instead of shoving them across an editor’s desk. Any publisher would grab a new book by Saul. And here he was, not making money at it (except for the royalties—meager, but still coming for The End of It ) after ten years.
Saul had said, “I haven’t finished one of those books, Jamie.”
She snorted. “Put a period.”
Saul had laughed and told her that was the best advice he’d ever been given. But he was sick, neurotic, decrepit, and he couldn’t do this.
Jamie couldn’t understand it. “You don’t think an editor would notice, do you? Besides, who in hell would ever actually have the almighty gall to ‘edit’ one of your books? What, you think a reviewer would figure out you never finished it? Don’t make me laugh.”
Jamie’s view of writing was completely outer directed, reader directed. She never entertained the notion that writing had nothing to do with money. Ned had said this once and Jamie had gazed at him, eyes wide with shock. How could he say that? Was he nuts?
“Look at Saul.”
“Saul has money.”
“Whether he’s got money or not,” Ned had gone on, “do you think money would motivate him? Saul? And what about b. w. brill and the others?”
“They’re poets, for God’s sakes! Everyone knows you can’t make money writing poetry. Unless you’re famous for something else, unless you’re a celebrity-poet, and how many of those are there? The only famous poet’s mostly a dead poet.”
“We’re not talking about fame; we’re talking about money.”
“Funny how the two of them go together. ‘Rich and famous,’ it’s a lock.” Jamie drank her boilermaker. That’s what she did these days, tossed back the whiskey in one gulp, then went for the beer.
Ned wondered: when was the last time he’d ever heard of boiler-makers? Had he ever seen anyone drink one except for Jamie? For all of her money talk, for all of her disdaining the past, Ned thought Jamie was mired in it. In old times. He suspected Jamie’s considerable output masked a considerable loss, one she could no longer sustain. He often wondered what it was. The death of someone, of course. Father? Mother? It was hard to get Jamie to talk about her past.
It was always coming at you, thought Ned, forcing you down paths you would never otherwise have gone.
She went on: “And all of that ‘writing-is-torture’ stuff, Saul. I’m amazed you’d stoop that low.”
Saul raised his beer in a sort of salute. “Jamie, I wish I had half your confidence.”
She dropped her head in her hands, shook it. “Christ, this from a man who’s won the Pen/Faulkner, the National Book Award, the New York Critics’ Award, and blah blah blah.” She lifted her head and looked at him. “Do you really expect me to believe you need my confidence?”
“No.”
“Haven’t you ever had writer’s block?” Ned asked. “Even when you were starting out?”
“Why should I? Why should anybody? You can’t be blocked if you just keep on writing words. Any words. People who get ‘blocked’ make the mistake of thinking they have to write good words. I look at words the way whoever wrote Field of Dreams looked at that damned baseball field. ‘Write it,
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