“Too bad they’re not book collectors,” Leigh said.
“I saved the writer’s table,” Noelle said to Mercer.
“And Noelle is going to close for a month so she can hustle back to France and restock.”
Noelle said, “They’re very nice people, and very knowledgeable. I’m meeting them in Provence for more shopping.”
“Now, that sounds like fun,” Mercer said.
“Why don’t you go with me?” Noelle said.
“Might as well,” Myra said. “Can’t do any more damage to your novel.”
“Now, Myra,” Leigh said.
“Have you been to Provence?” Noelle asked.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to see it. How long will you be there?”
Noelle shrugged as if a schedule was not important. “Maybe a month or so.” She glanced at Bruce and something passed between them, as if the invitation to Mercer had not been discussed beforehand.
Mercer caught it and said, “I’d better save my money for the writer’s table.”
“Good call,” Myra said. “You’d better stay here and write. Not that you need my advice.”
“She doesn’t,” Leigh said softly.
They passed around a large serving bowl of shrimp risotto and a basket of bread, and after a few bites Myra began looking for trouble. “Here’s what I think we should do, if I might say so,” she said, chomping away with a mouth full of food. “This is very unusual and I’ve never done it before, which is all the more reason to do it now, you know, venture into unknown territory. We should have a literary intervention, right now, around this table. Mercer, you’ve been here for what, a month or so, and haven’t written a damned word that might one day be sold, and, frankly, I’m getting kinda tired of your moaning and bellyaching about not making any progress with the novel. So, it’s pretty obvious to all of us that you don’t have a story, and since you haven’t published in, what, ten years—”
“More like five.”
“Whatever. It’s plain as day that you need some help. So what I propose is that we intervene as your new friends and help you find a story. Just look at all the talent around the table here. Surely we can steer you in the right direction.”
Mercer said, “Well, it can’t get any worse.”
“See what I mean,” Myra said. “So, we’re here to help.” She gulped some beer from a bottle. “Now, for purposes of this intervention, we need to set some parameters. First and most important is to decide whether you want to write literary fiction, stuff you can’t give away, hell, Bruce can’t even sell it, or do you want to write something more popular. I’ve read your novel and your stories and I’m not the least bit surprised they didn’t sell. Forgive me, okay? This is, after all, an intervention so we have to be brutally blunt. Okay? Everybody okay with the bluntness thing?”
“Go for it,” Mercer said with a smile. The rest nodded. We’re all having fun. Let’s hear it.
Myra crammed in a fork stuffed with lettuce and kept talking. “I mean, you’re a beautiful writer, girl, and some of your sentences just stopped me cold, which, one could argue, is not something a good sentence is supposed to do, but anyway you can write like hell and I think you can write anything. So what’s it gonna be—literary fiction or popular fiction?”
“Can’t it be both?” Bruce asked, thoroughly enjoying the conversation.
“For a handful of authors, right,” Myra replied. “But for the vast majority the answer is no.” She looked at Mercer and said, “This is something we’ve been debating for about ten years, since the first day we met. But, anyway, let’s assume that you will probably not be able to write literary fiction that will slay the critics and also rack up impressive royalties. And by the way, there is no envy here. I don’t write anymore so my career is over. I’m not sure what Leigh is doing these days but she’s damned sure not publishing anything.”
“Now, Myra.”
“So we can safely say her career is over too, and we don’t care. We’re old and we have plenty of money, so there’s no competition. You’re young and gifted and you’ll have a future if you can just figure out what to write. Thus this intervention. We’re just here to help. By the way, this risotto is delicious, Noelle.”
“Am I supposed to respond?” Mercer asked.
“No, it’s an intervention. You’re supposed to sit there and listen to us as we beat you up. Bruce, you go first. What should Mercer write?”
“I would start by asking what you read.”
“Everything by Randy Zalinski,” Mercer said and got a laugh.
“Poor guy’s laid up with a migraine and we’re trashing him over dinner,” Myra said.
“God help us,” Leigh said quietly.
Bruce asked, “What are the last three novels you read?”
Mercer took a sip of wine and thought for a second. “I loved The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah, and I believe it sold well.”
Bruce agreed. “Indeed it did. It’s out in paperback and still selling.”
Myra said, “I liked it, but you can’t make a living writing books about the Holocaust. Besides, Mercer, what do you know about the Holocaust?”
“I didn’t say I wanted to write about it. She’s written twenty books, all different.”
“Not sure it qualifies as literary fiction,” Myra said.
“Are you sure you would recognize it if you saw it?” Leigh asked with a grin.
“Was that a cheap shot, Leigh?”
“Yes.”
Bruce regained control with “Anyway, the other two novels?”
“A Spool of Blue Thread by Anne Tyler, one of my favorites, and LaRose by Louise Erdrich.”
“All girls,” Bruce said.
“Yes, I rarely read books written by men.”
“Interesting, and smart, since about 70 percent of all novels are purchased by women.”
“And all three sell, right?” Noelle asked.
“Oh yes,” Bruce said. “They write great books that sell well.”
“Bingo,” said Mercer. “That’s the plan.”
Bruce looked at Myra and said, “Well, there you have it. A successful intervention.”
“Not so fast. What about murder mysteries?” Myra asked.
“Not really,” Mercer replied. “My brain doesn’t work like that. I’m not devious enough to drop off clues and pick them up later.”
“Suspense? Thrillers?”
“Not really. I can’t do intricate plots.”
“Spies, espionage?”
“I’m too much of a girl.”
“Horror?”
“Are you kidding? After dark I’m afraid of my shadow.”
“Romance?”
“Don’t know the subject matter.”
“Porn?”
“I’m still a virgin.”
Bruce added, “Porn doesn’t sell anymore. You can get all you want for free online.”
Myra exhaled dramatically and said, “Those were the days. Twenty years ago Leigh and I could make the pages sizzle. Science fiction? Fantasy?”
“Never touch the stuff.”
“Westerns?”
“I’m afraid of horses.”
“Political intrigue?”
“I’m afraid of politicians.”
“Well, that does it. Looks like you’re destined to write historical fiction about screwed-up families. Now get to work. We expect some progress from this point on.”