“It may take some time to get the money straight, but I must have it.”
“And you think that’s going to cure your writer’s block?” Myra asked. “An old table from France?”
“Who said I had writer’s block?” Mercer asked.
“Well, what do you call it then when you can’t think of anything to write?”
“How about a ‘drought’?”
“Bruce? You’re the expert.”
Bruce was holding the large salad bowl as Leigh took a serving. He said, “ ‘Block’ sounds too severe. I think I prefer ‘drought.’ But, who am I? Y’all are the wordsmiths.”
Myra laughed for no apparent reason and blurted, “Leigh, remember the time we wrote three books in a month? We had this slimeball publisher who wouldn’t pay us, and so our agent said we couldn’t jump to another house because we owed the guy three books. So Leigh and I came up with three of the worst plots ever, really ridiculous stuff, and I banged the typewriter ten hours a day for thirty straight days.”
“But we had a great one in the wings,” Leigh said, passing along the salad bowl.
Myra said, “Right, right. We had the best idea ever for a semi-serious novel, but we were not about to give it to our jackass publisher. We had to get out of his lousy contract so we could snag a better house, one that would appreciate the genius behind our great idea. That part of it worked. Two years later, the three awful books were still selling like crazy while the great novel flopped. Go figure.”
Mercer said, “I think I might want to paint it, though, the writer’s table.”
“We’ll look at some colors,” Noelle said. “And make it perfect for the cottage.”
“Have you seen the cottage?” Myra asked in mock surprise. “We haven’t seen the cottage. When do we see the cottage?”
“Soon,” Mercer said. “I’ll throw a dinner.”
“Tell them the good news, Noelle,” Bruce said.
“What good news?”
“Don’t be coy. A few days ago a rich couple from Texas bought Noelle’s entire inventory. The store is practically empty.”
“Too bad they’re not book collectors,” Leigh said.
“I saved the writer’s table,” Noelle said to Mercer.
“And Noelle is going to close for a month so she can hustle back to France and restock.”
Noelle said, “They’re very nice people, and very knowledgeable. I’m meeting them in Provence for more shopping.”
“Now, that sounds like fun,” Mercer said.
“Why don’t you go with me?” Noelle said.
“Might as well,” Myra said. “Can’t do any more damage to your novel.”
“Now, Myra,” Leigh said.
“Have you been to Provence?” Noelle asked.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to see it. How long will you be there?”
Noelle shrugged as if a schedule was not important. “Maybe a month or so.” She glanced at Bruce and something passed between them, as if the invitation to Mercer had not been discussed beforehand.
Mercer caught it and said, “I’d better save my money for the writer’s table.”
“Good call,” Myra said. “You’d better stay here and write. Not that you need my advice.”
“She doesn’t,” Leigh said softly.
They passed around a large serving bowl of shrimp risotto and a basket of bread, and after a few bites Myra began looking for trouble. “Here’s what I think we should do, if I might say so,” she said, chomping away with a mouth full of food. “This is very unusual and I’ve never done it before, which is all the more reason to do it now, you know, venture into unknown territory. We should have a literary intervention, right now, around this table. Mercer, you’ve been here for what, a month or so, and haven’t written a damned word that might one day be sold, and, frankly, I’m getting kinda tired of your moaning and bellyaching about not making any progress with the novel. So, it’s pretty obvious to all of us that you don’t have a story, and since you haven’t published in, what, ten years—”
“More like five.”
“Whatever. It’s plain as day that you need some help. So what I propose is that we intervene as your new friends and help you find a story. Just look at all the talent around the table here. Surely we can steer you in the right direction.”
Mercer said, “Well, it can’t get any worse.”
“See what I mean,” Myra said. “So, we’re here to help.” She gulped some beer from a bottle. “Now, for purposes of this intervention, we need to set some parameters. First and most important is to decide whether you want to write literary fiction, stuff you can’t give away, hell, Bruce can’t even sell it, or do you want to write something more popular. I’ve read your novel and your stories and I’m not the least bit surprised they didn’t sell. Forgive me, okay? This is, after all, an intervention so we have to be brutally blunt. Okay? Everybody okay with the bluntness thing?”
“Go for it,” Mercer said with a smile. The rest nodded. We’re all having fun. Let’s hear it.
Myra crammed in a fork stuffed with lettuce and kept talking. “I mean, you’re a beautiful writer, girl, and some of your sentences just stopped me cold, which, one could argue, is not something a good sentence is supposed to do, but anyway you can write like hell and I think you can write anything. So what’s it gonna be — literary fiction or popular fiction?”
“Can’t it be both?” Bruce asked, thoroughly enjoying the conversation.
“For a handful of authors, right,” Myra replied. “But for the vast majority the answer is no.” She looked at Mercer and said, “This is something we’ve been debating for about ten years, since the first day we met. But, anyway, let’s assume that you will probably not be able to write literary fiction that will slay the critics and also rack up impressive royalties. And by the way, there is no envy here. I don’t write anymore so my career is over. I’m not sure what Leigh is doing these days but she’s damned sure not publishing anything.”
“Now, Myra.”
“So we can safely say her career is over too, and we don’t care. We’re old and we have plenty of money, so there’s no competition. You’re young and gifted and you’ll have a future if you can just figure out what to write. Thus this intervention. We’re just here to help. By the way, this risotto is delicious, Noelle.”
“Am I supposed to respond?” Mercer asked.
“No, it’s an intervention. You’re supposed to sit there and listen to us as we beat you up. Bruce, you go first. What should Mercer write?”
“I would start by asking what you read.”
“Everything by Randy Zalinski,” Mercer said and got a laugh.
“Poor guy’s laid up with a migraine and we’re trashing him over dinner,” Myra said.
“God help us,” Leigh said quietly.
Bruce asked, “What are the last three novels you read?”
Mercer took a sip of wine and thought for a second. “I loved The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah, and I believe it sold well.”
Bruce agreed. “Indeed it did. It’s out in paperback and still selling.”
Myra said, “I liked it, but you can’t make a living writing books about the Holocaust. Besides, Mercer, what do you know about the Holocaust?”
“I didn’t say I wanted to write about it. She’s written twenty books, all different.”
“Not sure it qualifies as literary fiction,” Myra said.
“Are you sure you would recognize it if you saw it?” Leigh asked with a grin.
“Was that a cheap shot, Leigh?”
“Yes.”
Bruce regained control with “Anyway, the other two novels?”
“A Spool of Blue Thread by Anne Tyler, one of my favorites, and LaRose by Louise Erdrich.”