The Point of Vanishing Maryka Biaggio (hardest books to read TXT) 📖

to think of how to respond, their meals arrived. She picked up her fork and knife, poised them over the plate, and asked, “Who do you think it might appeal to?”

He scooped a forkful of mashed potatoes and, before delivering it to his mouth, said, “That’s the problem, Barbara. I’m not sure. It’s full of adventure, which might excite the young reader, but then it ends tragically. Such darkness can work only with adults.”

Barbara sliced off a flake of filet. She chewed without tasting and swallowed. “Are you saying you won’t publish it?”

“You know,” he said, bouncing a finger in the air, “your earlier works greatly excited reviewers—and readers as well. In a way, that throws an obstacle in your path. And mine. I can’t put something out that won’t compare well.”

“You think it’s not good enough? That it won’t land neatly with a particular type of reader?”

“It’s complicated. It’s technically well written.” He reached inside his suit jacket, extracted a pocket-sized notebook, and flicked it open. “There are some lovely passages. Like your description of a subway ride as ‘yellow meteors jumping up and arranging themselves in a row, one end growing, the other fading in the tunnel.’ And of the storm at sea as ‘black chaos gleaming with fangs of white foam.’ But it doesn’t all hold together.”

“You mean the story or the way of telling it?”

“Both, I’d say. There’s an idealistic, even unrealistic sentiment at the bottom of it. The adult reader won’t find it believable.”

“I wanted to tell a story about whether one can live one’s dream in today’s world. I can’t be the only person who wonders that.”

“I suppose not. But there’s something unyieldingly black and white about it.” One-handed, he swiped his napkin over his mouth and dropped it back on his lap. “The way you pit civilization against nature fails to explore the complexity of the relationship between them or the realities of modern life.”

Barbara nodded slowly, buying herself time as she mulled this assessment. She chewed her green beans to a lumpy mush and swallowed. “Perhaps it is broad in how it paints New York life. But that’s supposed to show the sharp contrast, for they’re terribly different.”

“It doesn’t seem likely there are any undiscovered islands out there. That demands more than a reasonable dose of suspended belief.”

“But there may be. Who can one say what islands await discovery?”

Mr. Ashworth paused to pick up his knife. “I must think first about the probability of success for any manuscript, Barbara. I’m sorry to say I don’t believe this one has promise. But you’re young, and you have a solid reputation. I advise you to take up a new project.”

Barbara’s heart pitched. Two years she’d spent on this novel. It had all seemed so right, so tantalizing, once she finished: the city’s plodding work-a-day world; the square-rigger and its old sea captain; the storm and shipwreck; the blossoming of love on the bountiful island; and the desecration of the island and the lovers’ dream. She’d been able to completely immerse herself in the world she’d created. Why couldn’t others? She put down her fork and looked into his eyes. “Could I revise it to attract the young reader? The most enthusiastic fans for my earlier books were those of my age.”

“It has glimmers of the qualities found in your other works—the desire to escape the world of the mundane, the yearning for adventure, the almost magical turns of events. But it’s on the long side for the young audience. More importantly, you’ve got adult ideas woven tightly into the fabric, with the captain’s shamed daughter, the young lovers marrying under the stars, and the degradation of their paradise. If you wish to revise, you’ve got some big decisions to make. As it stands now, the story is neither fish nor fowl, adult nor child.”

She felt as if her meal had lodged halfway down her gullet. “In which direction do you recommend I take the revision?”

Mr. Ashworth bounced his hands apart and clasped them together on the table. “For the sake of discussion, let’s say you recast it for the adult reader. That probably wouldn’t require as much reworking of the warp and woof. Though I must tell you, I’d decline to review it again.”

Barbara wanted to salvage something from this meeting, but dejection buzzed at her like swarming flies. She struggled to suppress intruding thoughts: What would she tell her mother? Alice and Ethan? Her father’s novel was to be published next year, and she’d wanted nothing more than to put out something that would compare favorably, perhaps even overshadow his work. Might Lost Island find another publisher? If not, what would happen to her writing career? Would failure relegate her to her soul-numbing stenographer’s job? She gathered enough composure to ask, “Can you give me any advice on revising?”

“First,” she heard him say, “scour the manuscript for the overly ordinary or easily contrived bits, like that Professor Myers. He’s what everyone conjures when they imagine a professor—some old fellow who smokes a pipe, forgets his appointments and misplaces his glasses. Make him different from the kind man who tells her just to go off and enjoy herself. It doesn’t make sense, especially since she’s leaving him high and dry without his able assistant.”

She nodded. The professor. Not so kindly and paternal.

“And Jane’s motives aren’t developed. We see she’s discontented with her life. But she’s got friends who depend on her. And a job she enjoys. Her decision to embark on an adventure seems sudden, with no particular impetus. You ought to have something that pushes her to that.”

Fine, she thought—I’ll add some spark for Jane’s actions.

“And more complexity to balance out the romantic notions. For instance, how realistic is it that the captain would welcome a young lady on a working ship? I don’t know how you can make that believable. And civilization’s not all bad. People need some sort of rules to live side by side, don’t you agree?”

Barbara nodded. If this