“Makes the world go round, or so I’m told. One way to look at this, life handed you a lemon and we’re opening a lemonade stand. Can I tell you what I want to do?”
“By all means.”
“I want to get back to all these nice people who say they can’t wait to hear more from me, and I want to put a package into play involving your next two books plus your backlist titles, the ones we control the rights to. I’ll tell them I’m going to run an informal auction, but I’ll be open to a really solid preemptive offer, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I get one that’s good enough to take.”
“How good would it have to be?”
“High six figures. That surprise you?”
“No,” he said, “not the way you’ve been talking. Ten minutes ago it would have surprised the shit out of me. Now it seems perfectly logical, in a cockeyed kind of way.”
“Cockeyed’s the word for it. Sweetie, before I start selling something, it would help to know if I’ve got something to sell. I’m sure writing’s the last thing you feel like doing, the last thing you even think you’d be capable of doing, but it might get you through the days. At the least it’ll give you something you can do without leaving the house, and it might even be therapeutic, and... what’s the matter, did I say something funny?”
“Funnier than Hannah’s bat mitzvah,” he said. “After I got off the phone with you, I started writing.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Scout’s honor. Hold on a sec.” He went to the Tools menu, selected Word Count. “Eight hundred and eighty-three words,” he said, “and where would we be without computers? A few years ago I’d have said I was on the fourth page, but now I can apprise you of my progress with pinpoint accuracy.”
“That’s great, John. You went back to work on the book? That shows you can write, and if you’re really into that book, well, you should stay with it, but...”
“But what?”
She took a breath. “I don’t want to tell you what to write, John. That’s something I never want to do. But if you were ever going to write a book with more deliberately commercial potential...”
“Now would be the time for it, huh?”
“From what you showed me of the book you’re working on, now there’s nothing wrong with it and a lot that’s right with it, and it could certainly work as the
He said, “Roz, that’s not what I was just working on. I looked at it, I felt completely out of touch with it.”
“Oh.”
“So I started something new.”
“Just now, we’re talking about.”
“Right.”
“That you’ve got eight hundred words done of.”
“Eight hundred and change.”
“And does it have, how to put it, commercial elements? I know it’s early to say, but is there any way it could be described as a thriller? Literary of course, anything you write is going to be literary, which is all to the good, but would it, uh...”
“Tie in with my present circumstances?”
“Thank you. Would it?”
“Remember the story we were talking about? ‘A Nice Place to Stop’?”
“Of course.”
“Well, that’s it.”
“The story expanded to novel length,” she said thoughtfully. “I can see how that might work. Flashbacks to give you more of a sense of who the characters are, and—”
“No, that’s not it. The novel’s not an expansion of the story, it
“Of course.”
“It starts with the story,” he said, “and he knocks her out with the tire iron, and then changes his mind, but it’s too late. So he does what he planned on doing, buries her deep and lights out for the territories, except he’s in the territories, and what he lights out for is New York.”
“And it’s how he gets pursued and caught?”
“He gets away with it.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know what happens,” he said, “because I’ll find out by writing it, but it feels as though I
“What I think,” she said, “is that Maury Winters isn’t going to have to worry about getting paid.”
It wasn’t what she’d expected.
