The Last Book Party(15)

“That was more than one question,” Jeremy said.

I kept on. “What’s the link between boy Greenberg in New Jersey and girl leper in Nepal? Did you have a skin condition as a kid or something?”

“Wow, you are so perceptive. It was eczema. A severe case.”

I gasped. “Really?”

“No, not really. Not at all. Do you actually think so literally, that creativity can be distilled so simply from point A to point B?”

I wasn’t too wasted to be embarrassed. I looked out the window, watching the delis and pubs of Second Avenue pass by in a blur.

“It wasn’t an unreasonable question. I mean, your novel doesn’t seem to be a case of ‘write what you know.’”

“Write what I know? No thanks.”

I wasn’t surprised that he’d be among the many writers who scoffed at that whole idea, but I was still puzzled by his choice of subjects.

“But you took such a leap. I mean, not just a foreign country, but a foreign girl. A teenage girl.”

“Men can’t write women?” he asked. “It’s a human story. She’s a human.”

“Yeah, a human who happens to be a fourteen-year-old female, which is sort of a seminal time in the life of a … human girl.”

We sat in silence for a few blocks. And then Jeremy said, “If I wanted to tell the world why I write or why I wrote about a Nepali girl, I would have written an essay instead of a novel. Is that concept too complicated for you to understand? Have you never written something that appeared on the page in a mysterious way?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” I said.

“So you do write. Why am I not surprised? Do you know exactly where your writing comes from?”

I had to admit I didn’t. To make my point, and perhaps to impress him, I told him about the best story I had written at Brown, about an angry widower trying to convince himself he needs no one, and how it had poured from me in a magical rush of scribbling during a train ride from Providence to Philadelphia to visit my brother. The story was published in Issues, the school literary magazine, and had gotten a lot of attention from the real writers on campus, one of whom, in what he probably considered a compliment, told me he was impressed that such a meek girl had written such a sharp story. I didn’t tell Jeremy that I knew what had inspired me—a disconcerting one-night stand with a maddeningly cerebral semiotics major—but that I was still astonished by the ease with which I’d written the story. Nothing had flowed like that since then, which made me think that perhaps I wasn’t meant to be a writer after all.

“Tell me,” Jeremy said, putting on the deep voice of a television interviewer, “was there not something in your childhood that prompted you to write from the perspective of an angry man? Perhaps … an abusive relationship?”

“Very funny. And no comment. I’m not the one heading out on the publicity circuit soon. And good luck with that, by the way. It’s clear you’re going to be a real charmer.”

I rested my head on the back of the vinyl seat and closed my eyes. At that moment, I only wanted to be back in Truro, hundreds of miles from Manhattan and its ambitious young writers. I wanted to be sitting in dusky light at the table in Franny’s kitchen, filled with a sense of belonging and promise.





10





The final apartment was narrow and decorated in hues of beige. The windows looked as though they couldn’t be opened, giving the space a slightly claustrophobic feel. When Jeremy and I walked in, Mindy Blodgett was adding a large wooden salad bowl to a sizable spread of food that included the obligatory brie, our second of the evening, and pasta primavera with sun-dried tomatoes.

“Come, take, eat!” Mindy said, waving a paper plate as if she was about to toss it like a Frisbee. I filled a plate with pasta and salads and moved to the corner of the dining room. Leaning against the wall, I ate to quell my stomach and get some space from Jeremy, who was circling the food table warily. Mindy followed closely behind him, giving a running commentary on the menu. “That’s spinach salad, with hard-boiled egg and bacon. That’s chicken salad, with walnuts and grapes. That’s hummus. It’s chick peas.”

“Of course,” Jeremy said. He put some pita triangles and a spoonful of hummus on his plate. He moved over to stand beside me.

“Lost your appetite?” I asked.

He dipped some pita in his hummus.

“I suppose I have. I’m not partial to salads.”

“Of any kind?”

“Pretty much.”

“So no vegetables. I’ll be sure to mention that to Mary so she can include it in the press release for your book launch. Any other deeply personal details you’re willing to share?”

Jeremy looked at me and for a moment I thought he was going to tell me off. But then he set down his paper plate and shrugged. “OK, so sue me. I don’t like being interrogated about my writing. I’ll get over it. Go ahead. Ask me three questions. Anything at all.”

“Three? How generous,” I said. “OK. Question one, were you sick as a child?”

“You can’t give it up, can you? I had the mumps and a few bouts of strep throat, but other than that, I had a healthy childhood. Next?”

“What was the first piece of fiction you ever wrote?”