Alex nodded.
“I’m very grateful that you agreed to see me,” she said in a rush, and Rose found it refreshing to talk to someone so grateful and undemanding. She had a roster full of difficult writers who thought the world of themselves and expected the moon of their publishers and agents. Alex was a breath of fresh air.
“Where can I get in touch with you?”
Alex wrote down her name, phone number, and address. “I go to Boston College.” But she had given her the convent number for messages.
“You may not hear from me for a while. I have several trips planned, and I don’t usually read new authors, but I’ll try to read this one when I have time.” Something told her that Alex was special and different, and she didn’t want to rely on someone else’s judgment about her book. Once in a while someone like her came in off the street, out of nowhere, with a fantastic book. She wanted to be sure that she didn’t miss it. She had an odd, inexplicable feeling about Alex. Sometimes exceptional writers were compelled to write at her age. Maybe she was one of them, and the type of book she had chosen was definitely unusual for a woman.
Rose Porter stood up then, with Alex’s book between them on her desk. She saw the way Alex looked at it, and she smiled at her. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise. I assume you made a copy.” She didn’t want the responsibility of keeping the only existing copy of the book.
“Yes, I did.” Alex thanked Rose again for seeing her, and a moment later, she left the office, went down in the elevator, and wanted to scream when she reached the street, she was so excited. She walked back to Penn Station in the deadly heat and felt like she was walking on air. Whatever happened now, she knew she had done her best. She had written the book and gotten it in the hands of an agent. After this, as Mother MaryMeg would say, it was up to God.
Chapter 8
Alex started her sophomore year at Boston College the week after her trip to New York to see the agent. She hadn’t heard anything from her by then, and didn’t expect to. Rose Porter was an important, busy woman, and Alex knew it would take a while for her to read the book and get back to her. Halfway through September, she had an idea for another book, and started working on an outline one weekend when her roommate was away. She had homework to do, but couldn’t stop herself, and the words just rolled onto the page. She had figured out the plot by the end of the weekend, and was happy with it, and she’d written a few pages of the first chapter. She had the opening scene nailed and it was a knockout. The title of the book would be Darkness.
She had finished four chapters of her book, according to her outline, when she heard from Rose Porter two weeks later in October. Mother MaryMeg called her at school to tell her that the agent had left a message for her. Alex didn’t know if that was good or bad news—maybe she called to deliver rejections too. She returned the call with trembling hands again from the phone in the dorm lobby, and got through to her very quickly.
Rose cut to the chase, sounding busy. “I read Blue Steel.”
“Thank you,” Alex said, holding her breath.
“It’s terrific. I’d like to represent you. It needs some editing, we can talk about that later. I think I can sell your book. I’m going to have it retyped and send it out next week. I’ll mail you the agency agreement, and if it meets with your approval, sign it and send me back one copy, and keep the other for yourself. You can have an attorney look at it for you, if you have one.”
“I do,” Alex said, stunned by everything she had just said.
“And what name are you going to publish under, if we sell it? Are you still determined to publish under a male pseudonym?”
“Yes. Alexander Green,” she said, off the top of her head.
“Why ‘Green’?” Rose assumed it was her mother’s maiden name or something similar, which was usually the case with pseudonyms.
“It’s my favorite color,” Alex said, smiling, and her new literary agent groaned.
“Oh God, you are thirteen years old. You’d better like the name, because you could be stuck with it for a long time, and I hope you will be. It’s a very, very good book, and I’m happy to represent you,” Rose said kindly. She liked her, even though it was obvious that Alex had no idea what she was doing, or about the publishing business, but she was one hell of a great writer. One of the best Rose had read in a long time. She had been an extraordinarily lucky find. It was kismet for both of them.
“Thank you,” Alex said politely. “I’m working on a new one. I’ve done four chapters so far.”
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet, to help you with the editing,” Rose said, sounding businesslike again. “His name is Bert Kingsley, and he happens to be in Boston. He only works with writers he likes. I want you to call him, and work on Blue Steel with him. And he can advise you about the new one. He’s a brilliant editor. I’ll give him a call first. I’ll pay for it. You can pay me back when we sell the book. I think it’s important. He can help you tighten your writing even more than it already is. He’s a little gruff at first. Officially, he’s retired, but he takes on projects like this from time to time. If he likes what you write, he’ll be a wonderful ally for you. Learn as much as you can from him. There are almost no editors left like him.” She was very pleased to hear that Alex was working on another book. It was the sign of a true writer. She hadn’t waited to hear Rose’s reaction, or to see if it would sell. She had another book in her, and had to get it out. Those were the writers Rose looked for and wanted to represent. She had a true vocation, a powerful drive about her writing, and immeasurable talent.
Alex jotted down Bert Kingsley’s number when Rose gave it to her, and Rose told her to keep trying until she reached him. He didn’t always answer his phone or return calls. She made him sound like a cantankerous old man, and Alex was a little nervous about working with him, but she could at least meet him once and see what she thought. She trusted Rose’s judgment.
The contract arrived at the convent three days later, and Alex called Bill Buchanan to tell him, and sent it to him, and he called her the following week to say that it was fine and she could sign it.
“You’ve written a book, Alex?” He sounded surprised and impressed. Despite all the changes she’d been through, she was still writing, a novel now, not just stories. He knew how pleased and proud her father would have been.
“Yes, and I’m working on another one.”