Barb had given Sandra sympathy and support from the very start of her troubles, Sandra didn’t discuss the Victor issue much, not with Barb, not with anyone. “I have your manuscript,” she said, taking it out. “Lady, you continue to amaze me. I wanted to stand up and cheer in the end, when Jessica and Stephanie rode through town on a pink parade float.”
“Just like real life, eh?” Gesturing around the cluttered, male-dominated house, Barb added, “Can you blame me for writing idealized fantasies for girls? I finished reading your manuscript, too. Just a sec—I’ll get it.”
She hurried from the room, and Sandra sat listening to
Rugrats
and gazing fondly at Ethan, who had strewn Cheerios across the coffee table, then fallen asleep on the couch, clutching a black plastic Uzi. Barb’s life with five rambunctious boys, her giant fireman of a husband and a hundred half-finished projects would make many women cringe, but when Sandra considered it, a powerful wave of yearning swept through her. What must it be like to have so many people depending on her, loving her, breaking her heart and making it whole again?
She was glad she’d come to see Barb today. She needed to get away for a while, to think about the one aspect of her life that hadn’t deserted her—writing.
The publishing world knew her as Sandy Babcock, author of critically acclaimed children’s novels. She felt safe in that skin. After marrying Victor, she’d kept her writing separate, walled off from her identity as his wife. She didn’t ever want someone to buy her books because she was married to a public figure. Where was the sense in that? Besides, the material she tended to write about probably wouldn’t endear her to his constituents. The fact that she published under her maiden name was no big secret, just something she never advertised.
Up until the accident, she’d had so much with Victor. A husband, a writing career, and all the subtle, understated luxuries the Winslow fortune could provide. She’d been lulled into believing she was a Winslow, too. Victor and his parents had made her feel a part of the family. But when disaster struck, all the support and belonging disappeared like a lost computer file.
“Got it,” Barb said, returning to the kitchen with Sandra’s manuscript, the pages now bleeding from copious—and probably richly warranted—red editing marks. “Congratulations on that write-up in the
New York Times.
I saved the clipping for you.” Perching a pair of purple reading glasses on her nose, she said, “Here’s the good part— ‘a darkly beautiful addition to the canon of children’s literature.’ “
“That’s code for calling me the Sylvia Plath of children’s books. Sales on that novel were not exactly off the charts.”
“Write something light,” Barb advised her. “Think comical. Think commercial. Put a dog in it. Or a pet dragon. That’s what kids want these days.”
Sandra fiddled with her favorite fountain pen. Comical. Commercial. A dog. Maybe Charlotte, who was coping with her grandmother’s descent into senility, could have a zany adventure with a basset hound.
“I just don’t have those kinds of stories in me,” she said. “My books always involve a struggle.”
In each novel she wrote, she took her readers to dark places where they were forced to confront fears, secrets, prejudices, injustice. Her stories depicted lonely kids with huge problems and narrow options. She loved to explore the shadowy roads those kids traveled—invariably alone— in order to find some sort of redemption. That was the beauty of fiction. When you closed the book, the trouble was gone.
“I know, sweetie. Just a thought. To be honest, you had me in tears by the end, when Charlotte tucks her grand-mother in bed and kisses her good night. You must be really proud of this one.”
Sandra nearly spit her Sanka. “I don’t think proud quite says it. To be honest, I feel lucky my novels get published
“Just like real life, eh?” Gesturing around the cluttered, male-dominated house, Barb added, “Can you blame me for writing idealized fantasies for girls? I finished reading your manuscript, too. Just a sec—I’ll get it.”
She hurried from the room, and Sandra sat listening to
Rugrats
and gazing fondly at Ethan, who had strewn Cheerios across the coffee table, then fallen asleep on the couch, clutching a black plastic Uzi. Barb’s life with five rambunctious boys, her giant fireman of a husband and a hundred half-finished projects would make many women cringe, but when Sandra considered it, a powerful wave of yearning swept through her. What must it be like to have so many people depending on her, loving her, breaking her heart and making it whole again?
She was glad she’d come to see Barb today. She needed to get away for a while, to think about the one aspect of her life that hadn’t deserted her—writing.
The publishing world knew her as Sandy Babcock, author of critically acclaimed children’s novels. She felt safe in that skin. After marrying Victor, she’d kept her writing separate, walled off from her identity as his wife. She didn’t ever want someone to buy her books because she was married to a public figure. Where was the sense in that? Besides, the material she tended to write about probably wouldn’t endear her to his constituents. The fact that she published under her maiden name was no big secret, just something she never advertised.
Up until the accident, she’d had so much with Victor. A husband, a writing career, and all the subtle, understated luxuries the Winslow fortune could provide. She’d been lulled into believing she was a Winslow, too. Victor and his parents had made her feel a part of the family. But when disaster struck, all the support and belonging disappeared like a lost computer file.
“Got it,” Barb said, returning to the kitchen with Sandra’s manuscript, the pages now bleeding from copious—and probably richly warranted—red editing marks. “Congratulations on that write-up in the
New York Times.
I saved the clipping for you.” Perching a pair of purple reading glasses on her nose, she said, “Here’s the good part— ‘a darkly beautiful addition to the canon of children’s literature.’ “
“That’s code for calling me the Sylvia Plath of children’s books. Sales on that novel were not exactly off the charts.”
“Write something light,” Barb advised her. “Think comical. Think commercial. Put a dog in it. Or a pet dragon. That’s what kids want these days.”
Sandra fiddled with her favorite fountain pen. Comical. Commercial. A dog. Maybe Charlotte, who was coping with her grandmother’s descent into senility, could have a zany adventure with a basset hound.
“I just don’t have those kinds of stories in me,” she said. “My books always involve a struggle.”
In each novel she wrote, she took her readers to dark places where they were forced to confront fears, secrets, prejudices, injustice. Her stories depicted lonely kids with huge problems and narrow options. She loved to explore the shadowy roads those kids traveled—invariably alone— in order to find some sort of redemption. That was the beauty of fiction. When you closed the book, the trouble was gone.
“I know, sweetie. Just a thought. To be honest, you had me in tears by the end, when Charlotte tucks her grand-mother in bed and kisses her good night. You must be really proud of this one.”
Sandra nearly spit her Sanka. “I don’t think proud quite says it. To be honest, I feel lucky my novels get published
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