Quarmbey nodded. “The judges often pick the work of their friends or former students. Or else the readers screen out everything that’s actually interesting, leaving the poor judge to try to pick something from among the bland leftovers.”
“The other day,” Hinks said, his neck curved, his head jutting from his tortoise body, “I received a rejection letter from a journal that was considering two of my stories. The editor wrote that she couldn’t decide whether to publish one or both of the stories, so she was going to opt for neither.”
“That’s terrible,” Margot said sympathetically. “I once received my self-addressed stamped envelope back from a journal, and they hadn’t even bothered to put in the form rejection letter. They just sent the empty envelope.”
Hinks pumped his head. “I once received a lovely rejection letter that went on and on about the story’s wonderful control of tone, vivid characterization, and all. Then I realized that it wasn’t even about my story and that some other writer had received my rejection letter.”
“Terrible,” Margot agreed. “And the rejection letters are getting smaller and smaller, have you noticed? I’m all for saving natural resources, but it is disheartening to receive a sentence on one-sixteenth of a piece of paper in exchange for a thirty-page short story.”
“Thirty pages?” Quarmbey asked. “I don’t want to offend you, sweetheart, but that might be the problem right there.”
“There are the glossies, of course,” Andrew put in quickly. “But they’re hodgepodges, and it’s rare for any of them to publish more than one decent story amid their general clap-trap. What this country needs is a good quarterly publication that publishes the highest quality fiction with a few good critical essays.”
“It wouldn’t take a lot of start-up money, either,” Quarmbey added, “and the thing would likely pay for itself in no time, with grant money and such.”
“I think it would be downright successful just in subscriptions. It would take its place between those academy-based annuals and Fadge’s horrendous monthly. It would publish only the finest stories, without taking the pulse of the trendy set. Solid craftsmanship, strong imagery, vivid characterization, classic plot arcs. The kind of stories you write.” Andrew paused and turned to Margot. “Did you know that Mr. Hinks, one of our finest short story writers, has trouble placing his work?”
“That’s terrible,” she said. “Especially since there are so many journals these days.”
“But not of the right kind! Hardly one of them is worth its salt,” Andrew spouted.
“I ran across one the other day,” said Quarmbey, “that actually bragged about publishing no realism whatsoever, while claiming to be socially and politically relevant. How can you pretend to be socially and politically relevant if you don’t publish representations of the times in which you live?”
Hinks shook his head, and the three men proceeded to discuss their imaginary journal as though they were its editorial committee and the first issue was about to go to print.
A good half an hour had passed when Margot, who had finished her drink and was not participating in their conversation, rose to leave. “Can I get anyone another drink before I retire?” she asked, collecting Quarmbey’s empty glass as he nodded.
“Yourself,” Andrew said. “Get yourself another drink.”
His daughter lifted the back of her hand to cover her yawn.
“We very much wanted you to be part of this discussion. I’m thinking about your wellbeing, financial as well as intellectual, and I think the opportunity to launch a really quality literary journal would prepare your way.”
Margot’s gaze held his steadily, yet he could not read it.
“I’d hate to see you squander your literary gains when you could be ensuring not just your literary future but indeed that of your country.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Dad. It’s just so clear to me that there are more journals than there are good stories. Most of them fold. And it seems as though soon more than half of them will be online only. If we start a journal, no one will notice, and what little money I have will be gone.”
Anger rose in Andrew’s chest, but he stayed seated and kept his mouth clamped.
“Besides, my paltry advance would cover you for all of six months.”
Quarmbey countered: “But by then we’d be fundraising, applying for grants, putting on some events, and of course building circulation all the while.”
“I don’t want to be the arbiter of taste,” Margot said. “I just want to write some stories and then maybe another novel.”
Now Andrew rose and in his lowest growl said, “About what? Syphilitics in Alabama? That’s what the world needs, not a quality journal, no indeed, but a very quiet novel about syphilitics in Alabama written by an upper-middle-class white girl from Annandaleon-Hudson.”
Quarmbey looked down and shook his head. Hinks rose, placing a physical obstacle between father and daughter.
“You’ve always been bellicose and pig-headed and basically selfish. But I didn’t realize until just now that you are a cruel man.” Margot did not cry before leaving the room.
“It’s time for you to leave,” Andrew told the two men. “My wife will drive you to the train.”
Later, he sat in the dark in his study and pictured himself walking down the hall, tapping softly on his daughter’s door, asking if he could read her a story. He knew he should go and apologize, but he could not translate the thought into action, could not lift himself to stand. He pushed the skin of his face, using his fingertips to smooth it up and out, trying to remember the names of the books he’d read to Margot when she was a child. Some of them he must have read a hundred times, forcing himself to repeat them over and over while she listened raptly, fighting sleep, as though the ending might be different each time.
Chapter twenty-nine
On Christmas Eve, Jackson Miller was enjoying Amanda’s saffron-laced seafood stew. Amanda and Eddie had toasted Jackson’s publishing contract at the beginning of the meal, and Amanda had inquired about every detail of the sale except for the size of his advance, which was, no doubt, the piece of information that most interested her.
Jackson talked some about his publisher’s plans for the book: the pre-publication publicity lunch, the publication soiree, the plot for media infiltration, the advertising budget, the corporate sales. It was clear by the way he concentrated on his utensils that Eddie was not enjoying the conversation. Jackson wasn’t even sure that his friend was happy for him.
When Eddie’s book had sold, Jackson had faced down his own jealousy and cheered on his friend. He had told himself: I wish it were me; I’m glad it’s Eddie; I look forward to the day when it’s me. And so now he felt a bit dented by the lack of reciprocal enthusiasm. After all, Eddie had already published a book — and he had Amanda.
It rankled Jackson, too, that underlying Eddie’s lukewarm congratulations was the belief that Jackson’s success was undeserved, that he wasn’t a good writer. Still, Jack sympathized with Eddie’s failure to follow up on his early success, even if the misery was largely self-inflicted, and understood that disappointment fuels bitterness. Jackson could now afford to be magnanimous, and he’d always been affable if not particularly loyal. He always wished others well, all the more so if it didn’t cost him anything.
Directing the conversation away from his contract for Eddie’s sake, he said, “So fill me in on the doings of Whelpdale.”
Eddie lightened. “He’s offering a local workshop called ‘how to write and sell a novel in ten weeks,’ if you can believe it. He claims to have invented something called the ‘crystal method’ of novel writing, which he promises will generate a publishable novel through a series of easy-to-follow steps. All you need to start is one idea for a character.”