Helena. All I could do was hope that I hadn’t made things worse.
“Well, that is a little unusual,” Beth said, after I had described the meeting with Janet. “I know I would feel very awkward and inappropriate discussing you with any of the other fellows. In fact, I wouldn’t do it at all, unless something dire had happened.”
“Janet didn’t act like she thought it was dire. More like it was something she thought was curious, and she wanted a closer glimpse of the event.” Like she was a child with a magnifying glass. I wasn’t sure if I had been the ant smoldering beneath, or if Helena was.
“Do you know her at all?” I asked. “Janet, I mean.”
Beth sipped her tea. A different cup this time, with some sort of spidery-looking purple flower, and a matching saucer. I remained deeply grateful that she offered me coffee, and solid mugs to put it in, when we met. “A bit,” she said.
“We’ve spoken to each other at events for Melete, of course, and she’s always been perfectly civil to me, but I find her very affected. She strikes me as someone who is both extremely snobbish and trying to hide something she’s insecure about. To be frank, what you’ve said about this situation with Helena makes me wonder whether she should be allowed to be a mentor anymore.” Beth shook her head. “That’s beside the point for now. It’s far too late to assign Helena to another mentor.
“How is your work going? You haven’t lit anything on fire recently, I hope.”
I forced out a laugh, using the reaction to cover up the shudder that ran through me, the ghost pain that sparked through my hand. “No.”
I didn’t want to say it, to jinx myself by speaking the words, evento Beth, but things were going well. After a few false starts, and some pieces I would fix in revision, I had found the voice of my stories, and the themes that would unite them into a whole, a novel, rather than just a collection. It was the best work I had ever done, and writing them felt like running a full-out sprint along a tightrope. I’d be fine as long as I didn’t look down.
“Good. Destruction of your work is rarely the solution to difficulties with it.”
“Have you ever hated your writing that much?” I asked.
“That I wanted to destroy it?” She shook her head. “There are things I would write differently, were I to write them now. That’s not embarrassment, that’s simply the nature of the profession. I’ve been at this for more than thirty years, and it would be dishonest to say that there’s nothing I’d change, that I wouldn’t be able to say things better now, than I did when I originally wrote them.
“And there are works of mine I prefer not to look back at, because remembering the time when they were written, the person I was when I was writing them, is not pleasant.”
She paused, collecting herself, and I looked away from her memories.
“That doesn’t mean that I would destroy those works, or that I’m not proud of having come out the other side. Our past art makes our present art as much as our past life makes us who we are now. In the end, if the art stands up, that’s what matters.
“Which reminds me.” She stood. “I have something for you.”
“You do?” My eyes immediately went to her bookshelves.
“There is a secondary award system here at Melete, once you’ve become a fellow. Mentors nominate particular people whose talent they feel is exceptional, outstanding even for here. You’ve been chosen as one of them.”
“I have?” I pressed my hand hard against my chest, as if that could keep my fizzing heart closed behind my ribs.
“The stories you sent me, when I was so rude as to break our bargain and ask you for pages, were spectacular. Even in draft. It was my honor to recommend you. Here.” She handed me a tiny box, wrapped in paper embossed with the Greek letter mu , the first letter in Melete. Inside was a necklace, an hourglass pendant on a silver chain. “I hope
“Well, that is a little unusual,” Beth said, after I had described the meeting with Janet. “I know I would feel very awkward and inappropriate discussing you with any of the other fellows. In fact, I wouldn’t do it at all, unless something dire had happened.”
“Janet didn’t act like she thought it was dire. More like it was something she thought was curious, and she wanted a closer glimpse of the event.” Like she was a child with a magnifying glass. I wasn’t sure if I had been the ant smoldering beneath, or if Helena was.
“Do you know her at all?” I asked. “Janet, I mean.”
Beth sipped her tea. A different cup this time, with some sort of spidery-looking purple flower, and a matching saucer. I remained deeply grateful that she offered me coffee, and solid mugs to put it in, when we met. “A bit,” she said.
“We’ve spoken to each other at events for Melete, of course, and she’s always been perfectly civil to me, but I find her very affected. She strikes me as someone who is both extremely snobbish and trying to hide something she’s insecure about. To be frank, what you’ve said about this situation with Helena makes me wonder whether she should be allowed to be a mentor anymore.” Beth shook her head. “That’s beside the point for now. It’s far too late to assign Helena to another mentor.
“How is your work going? You haven’t lit anything on fire recently, I hope.”
I forced out a laugh, using the reaction to cover up the shudder that ran through me, the ghost pain that sparked through my hand. “No.”
I didn’t want to say it, to jinx myself by speaking the words, evento Beth, but things were going well. After a few false starts, and some pieces I would fix in revision, I had found the voice of my stories, and the themes that would unite them into a whole, a novel, rather than just a collection. It was the best work I had ever done, and writing them felt like running a full-out sprint along a tightrope. I’d be fine as long as I didn’t look down.
“Good. Destruction of your work is rarely the solution to difficulties with it.”
“Have you ever hated your writing that much?” I asked.
“That I wanted to destroy it?” She shook her head. “There are things I would write differently, were I to write them now. That’s not embarrassment, that’s simply the nature of the profession. I’ve been at this for more than thirty years, and it would be dishonest to say that there’s nothing I’d change, that I wouldn’t be able to say things better now, than I did when I originally wrote them.
“And there are works of mine I prefer not to look back at, because remembering the time when they were written, the person I was when I was writing them, is not pleasant.”
She paused, collecting herself, and I looked away from her memories.
“That doesn’t mean that I would destroy those works, or that I’m not proud of having come out the other side. Our past art makes our present art as much as our past life makes us who we are now. In the end, if the art stands up, that’s what matters.
“Which reminds me.” She stood. “I have something for you.”
“You do?” My eyes immediately went to her bookshelves.
“There is a secondary award system here at Melete, once you’ve become a fellow. Mentors nominate particular people whose talent they feel is exceptional, outstanding even for here. You’ve been chosen as one of them.”
“I have?” I pressed my hand hard against my chest, as if that could keep my fizzing heart closed behind my ribs.
“The stories you sent me, when I was so rude as to break our bargain and ask you for pages, were spectacular. Even in draft. It was my honor to recommend you. Here.” She handed me a tiny box, wrapped in paper embossed with the Greek letter mu , the first letter in Melete. Inside was a necklace, an hourglass pendant on a silver chain. “I hope
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