Sad Story of a Novel

Jonathan – Jonathan please, not Jon – and Gloria have been our nodding acquaintances for quite a while. When we cross paths in the shopping plaza we exchange ‘hello, how is the family?’ and move on, often without paying attention to the answer. Jonathan is in his late sixties, a shortish, bald on top with a fringe of grey hair, a little overweight and always immaculately dressed retired business executive who helped oil magnets maintain their pull till he turned sixty five. Gloria, a stately blonde a little younger than her husband, was a school teacher before and after a long spell as the homemaker. After retiring from their professional activities a few years ago, they counted their money, thanked the Lord for their many blessings and decided to focus on gardening and their family for the rest of their days. But things have a bad habit of turning out differently than one wishes. Their only son had a stroke when in his prime and was found dead in the bathroom by his wife. They were shattered by the shock and grief at their son’s loss. It was eighteen months to the day when they recovered enough of their composure to appear in public.

Our lives have followed a similar trajectory except that our daughter survived her often fatal illness. Another difference was that we do not have a garden. What with golf and bridge, extrovert extraordinaire Monica has a busy social life and no time for gardening. Being a solitary type, I spend my spare time, which I have a lot of, reading business news and writing short stories and essays for my enjoyment. One or two of these have been glorified by the ink of the press. I am probably being more humble than many would be in my situation. The truth is that a collection of my stories was published a year ago. My occasional sensitivity is due to several unpleasant factors: the book was not deemed worthy of a review by any media outlet, only the odd bookstore stocked it and it sold only 47 copies, mainly to Monica’s friends and my ex-business associates. But most of the time I feel a certain pride in being a published author. Of course, my good wife encourages this sentiment. She regards it as a spousal duty to promote her partner’s ego and I am grateful to her for it.

Some six months ago Monica ran into Gloria in the local shopping centre. Ran into is a little bit of exaggeration since they managed to stop before colliding. Gloria beamed with delight when she recognized the face only inches away from her own, “Hello, Monica. What a pleasant surprise. How are you doing? How is the family? I have been thinking of calling you for a while.”
Monica responded to the torrent of words with her usual calm, “I am so happy to see you. It has been a long time. Every one is well at our end. Ravi is still writing. No one wants to publish his writings but he doesn’t seem to mind. Having a book published makes him content.”
“That is why I wanted to call you. My granddaughter Gale was rummaging on Marty’s computer to help Jennifer, her mother, in locating information on family’s finances when she found what she thought were the sketches of a book. Jennifer was not interested at all and told her to delete them. But Gale sent them to me before following her mother’s order. I am too old to be glued to the screen, so I printed it.”
“Did you read it?” Monica asked as Gloria stopped for breath.
“Of course I read it. It is much more than sketches, more like the first draft that needed finishing. Poor Marty was called before he could do it, much like Mahler was when composing his tenth symphony. The book needs an editor. That is why I wanted to call you. I am wondering if your husband can help me find one.”

Monica told me of the conversation when she got home. I gave her Alana’s phone number. Alana had taught me a Creative Writing course and did teaching and book editing to support her writing addiction. A month later, Gloria bypassed the middlewoman and called me directly.
“The editor you recommended did a great job, thank you so much.”
“I am glad it worked out.”
“She looked through the manuscript I printed out for her. All four hundred single-spaced pages of it. She says it has the potential of a big hit but it does need some editing.”
“Congratulations. Did she recommend you some editor?”
“She offered to do it. She said it will take three months to produce a version for the prospective publishers. I wonder if I should offer to pay her and how much”
“What did she charge for the review?”
“I did not ask. I thought she was doing it as a courtesy.”
“Gloria, this is what she does to feed and clothe her teenagers. You know how quickly they empty the fridge and wear out the clothes.”
After a long silence that disconcerted me a little, I heard “I should settle this account first before I proceed to editing. What do you think I should offer? Two hundred?”
“Editors, like plumbers and other tradesmen, have their rates. It probably took her a hundred hours. Twenty five dollars an hour will be twenty five hundred dollars, I guess. But I do not really know. I have never hired an editor.” I replied, hopefully overestimating her cost so that she was not disappointed when Alana dropped her bombshell.

It turned out that Alana had spent forty hours and charged her a total of twelve hundred dollars, taxes included. She also quoted a set price of three thousand for editing and preparing the final draft. Gloria was shocked with both numbers. The total sum was nowhere near what would have made a smallest dent in their budget, but spending anything more than a few dollars for a book was incomprehensible to Gloria and Jonathan. Gloria asked Monica if we could all meet to discuss her options. Monica agreed for us to join them for a drink at their residence the following Saturday afternoon. Monica warned me not to be a smart Alec as I often try to be and be helpful with anything they want to know. I caught the wind and made a list of useful contacts as well as gathered a few magazines with helpful material.

We were warmly greeted by the couple and escorted to the elegant lawn furniture in a beautiful gazebo surrounded by a symphony of colours. Jonathan popped the cork of an expensive champagne bottle wrapped in a sparkling white napkin and served it with due ceremony in Venetian flutes straight from the freezer. We toasted the welfare of both families and sat down on well padded cast iron chairs. Without further ceremony Gloria came to the point, “I checked around about Alana and her rates. She is highly esteemed by her colleagues and her quote was by far the most reasonable. I am sure that she is the best person to do it.” She looked me squarely in the face and added, “It was kind of you to recommend her. Now the question is – Do we proceed or not?”
It was a loaded question and my brain took a while longer to analyse the information than most computers would. I had not forgotten Monica’s instruction either. At last I opened my mouth, “It is a ..”
“The money is not the issue. The issue is whether the effort is worthwhile,” Jonathan felt his rejoinder was more important than my reply.
It was Monica’s turn to put her dollar worth in, “You can’t think of money when your child’s memory is involved. Only thing to consider is the best way to preserve it.”
“Of course it is. You hit the nail on the head, Monica,” Gloria chipped in.
“Do we publish the manuscript as Marty left it, or we let an editor mess about with it? The question I ask is this – Will it still be Marty’s book when Alana is done with it?” Jonathan asked looking towards me as he topped my flute.
“I don’t think …..”
I did not get very far before Gloria decided my opinion could not be of interest to any one. She had her opinion which was what mattered after all, “I am going to make sure that Alana edits, not rewrites. Every book is edited and most of the time you don’t even know who the editor is. Is that right Ravi?”
“You have…”
Monica had more important point than I could raise, “It is always a writer’s book and it will always be good for Marty’s memory. Gloria, Jonathan does have a valid concern – how much latitude do you grant Alana in editing?”
Gloria did not take the comment in the spirit it was intended, “I know what is involved. I did some writing in my teaching days and published several pieces in the community broadsheet. Jonathan does not have to worry on this score, or any other score if I may add. The most important issue to me is this – do we find an agent or do we look for a publisher ourselves? Ravi, how did you find an agent or a publisher?”
“I struck…” Again someone had better answer than I did. It was Gloria herself, “If we wanted to self-publish there would be no problem. But so-called vanity publishing puts me off. If the book is any good, finding a respectable publisher should be a piece of cake.” After a sip of champagne she repeated her previous question, “How did you do it?”
“As I was about to say…”
Now it was Monica who interrupted, “You can’t go by what Ravi did. A friend knew a publisher who was desperate for a book; novel, essays, stories anything. He had this grant coming, subject to meeting a quota. The friend sent him Ravi’s book which was the right size and did not need much editing. He rushed it to the printer, met the critical deadline and grant paid his costs and some. He had no budget for promotion, no contacts in publishing industry, no distributor, nothing. The book only sold a few copies, and those to our friends who only bought it to be kind. You need to do better than that. From what Alana says, you almost certainly will.”
I was deflated. I had nothing to say. No one wanted my opinion any more any way. I was relieved to see that the bottle was nearly finished. As if on a cue all of us got up. Gloria and Jonathan were gracious hosts. Both gave parting hugs to Monica and pumped my hands vigorously. Gloria was effusive, “Thank you for your suggestions this afternoon. They will help us a lot.” Jonathan added, “Of course they will. Now we know what to do and how.”

In the car I complimented Monica for her wise comments. I was miffed at the reception my comments received but relieved that Monica did not notice it. Neither of us was surprised that our hosts did not show any curiosity about my book.

I saw Alana in a writers’ gathering the other day. After profusely thanking me for the business she told me of the sad ending. When Gloria, bursting with justified pride, showed Jennifer the finished book, the ingrate daughter-in-law refused the permission to publish. “I suspect scenes of marital disharmony cut too close to the bone” said Alana as she turned to greet a prospective client.

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