Book Doctor. Esther Cohen
first of all, are yours. I receive what you get per hour. In your case, I assume that’s about one hundred dollars, more or less. But you’ll have to tell me.”
He looked annoyed. “But you have no overhead,” he said. “No secretarial help, for example. No equipment. No expenses except for your pen,” and here he smiled. “I don’t even see a fax machine. Not that you need it of course. I am making no judgments, I can assure you of that. I myself am a technical caveman. Or is it cave person? Do forgive me.”
“I am providing a service that is hard to evaluate financially,” she said. “I’m sure people have this problem all the time with their taxes. What is a novel worth? One dollar? One million dollars? Somewhere in between? What is it worth for you to write your novel? Fifty dollars? Three thousand ? I’m afraid the way I resolve this question for myself and for my clients is to suggest that my work is equivalent in value to theirs.” Arlette stood up, moving around the room like a teacher in a classroom. She felt unsettled, and yet she’d said these same words many times. “I don’t think, of course, that money and art are connected. A wonderful poem, for instance, is worth millions. But a bad poem’s not worth nothing. I want to make it possible for everyone to work in this way if they want. If you don’t find the process acceptable, of course I understand. Perhaps you can find someone cheaper,” she added. “As for how I work, that depends completely on you. I give you exercises to help you think about your characters. To make them real. But you’re the one who tells the story. I help you do that,” she added. “When we’re through, you’ll have written enough to make you comfortable with the process,” she said. “You’ll have a better idea what you’re doing once you start.”
“I’d like some time to consider this,” he said. “The finances add another dimension to the equation. I thought it would be cheaper. Not that I am disparaging your services. Not at all. But I will think carefully, and call you in a few days. In any case, I will be happy to pay you for this initial consultation,” he said. “Please,” he smiled, and stood up, removing his wallet tentatively. It was old brown leather, well used. He opened it toward her, to display very neat bills, a large enough stack. She imagined them organized by serial number.
“No,” she said. “Our first meeting is free. Everyone is entitled to one free session in all service industries. Don’t you agree?”
“Not entirely,” he said. “That might put many out of business. Just one question, by the way. Will I be able to make enough from the sale of my novel to cover your expenses?” His question seemed innocent.
“This is about writing,” she said. “Only writing. But you’re not the first one to ask me that question. There’s a poet I like very much, named Edward Field, who wrote a poem called “Writing for Money.” I learned it years ago. It goes like this:
My friend and I have decided to write for money, he stories, I poems. We are going to sell them to magazines and when the cash rolls in he will choose clothes for me that make me stylish and buy himself a tooth where one fell out. Perhaps we will travel, to Tahiti maybe. Anyway we’ll get an apartment with an inside toilet and give up our typing jobs. That’s why I’m writing this poem, to sell for money.
“I can give you a copy, if you like,” she said.
“Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” he said. “Perhaps later on I may have the need for a copy. But not right now. Please don’t stand,” he said. “I am capable of going without undue fanfare. But thank you,” he said. “I feel optimistic.”
Then he left. She wasn’t sure if she’d hear from him again. She waited a few minutes, until he was clearly gone, to pick up her mail from downstairs. She thought about him, but very, very briefly. A small moment.
There was only one letter, in a brown recycled envelope. She often wondered if recycled envelopes had been envelopes before. The handwriting was cheerful, circular, a little too young.
Hi Arlette,
I don’t know if you remember me, but I remember you! We were on the same dorm floor. Different ends of the hall. I had brown hair and was very slightly overweight. My room was 315.
I got your address (obviously) from Susan Davis. She told me you’re a book doctor. What an unusual job. I’m sure you meet a lot of fascinating people.
By now, you’re probably wondering why I’m writing. Well you’ll never believe this. I was a sociology major, so I’ll bet this seems unlikely, but I wrote a novel. It’s based on a true story. I don’t feel I can do it justice with a plot summary. (Remember those from book report days? I read in my How to Query Handbook that people still want them. Can you believe it?) But maybe helping with plot summaries is one of the things you do. The working title is Go Figure, and it’s the story of my life. (It sounds like it could be a book about keeping track of your money I guess. But it isn’t.) Speaking of money, I really don’t have any idea what a book doctor costs. Do you charge like a medical specialist? My ex was an ENT doctor. Can you give me an estimate? Or do you have to see the patient first. Ha Ha. Should I just send it to you?
Yours for the lavender and white!
Debbie Altman
Harbinger Singh quickly replaced Debbie Altman in Arlette’s mind. Though she wasn’t sure why.
4
polka dots
Arlette and Jake had plans to see a performance artist named Night Shade do his monologue downtown. They’d intended to meet for dinner first, at one of the few restaurants that Jake liked, called Double Spring Roll on Spring Street and West Broadway. Arlette, for reasons she couldn’t name, felt angry at Jake as she waited for him. When he arrived, handsome and distant, smiling at her in his familiar way, she responded a little too loudly. “It’s much too trendy in here. It’s too art-directed.” She spoke as though he were to blame.
“You sound like Mia Farrow in that bad Woody Allen movie,” he said. “where she falls in love with Joe Mantegna and turns into Mother Teresa.” He smiled at her. “You’re the one who always says that righteousness is dangerous.”
“I’ve been in an odd mood all day,” she said. “I keep repeating ‘Life Is a River, Life Is a River,’ as a way to relax, but it just sounds like a book title.”
“I hope you haven’t been working on some self-help book,” Jake replied. “You know, I’ve always thought self-help was a Christian idea. Jews don’t have the notion that they can be redeemed. We try to understand what we can, we make attempts, like Freud did, or Marx, or all the Talmudic scholars. We study, instead of repent.” He looked pleased with himself.
“You think in such superior male terms,” she replied. “And you know how I feel about the whole ‘chosen’ syndrome. It’s awful.”
“What’s with you? Did something happen?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Truly nothing.”
“I thought a new writer was meeting you to talk. You always like that.”
“He did, and I do.”
“Who was it?” Jake asked. “Maybe that’s the problem here. Maybe you’re mad at him.”
“A tax lawyer. That’s all. And he’s writing a book, or says he wants to. They all say that. He doesn’t seem to know what it’s about.”
“So far, so good,” said Jake. “You like people who want to write books. I thought you believed it was all about the effort. The process. That people who don’t try are the problem.”
“I don’t try, and he does.” She looked straight at Jake, and could feel herself start to cry. “I judge instead,” she said. “And find myself lacking.”
“Looking at what in particular?”
“All