Living On Three Continents: The Writer's Dream
The phone rings, and enthusiastic author Susan Siddeley imagines a two-book, even a three-book, publishing deal. Then, doesn't every writer dream?
Button fatally pressed, I lean back spent. The manuscript has gone - into cyberspace, the lap of the Gods, Peter’s files or wherever. Now the hard part. Arms folded, eyes focused on a speck on the ceiling, I start the long wait.
Only on the 6th ring do I hear the phone.
“Yes,” I answer brusquely - nobody but insurance salesmen call at 7 o’clock in the evening.
“We’ll take it! Wonderful stuff. I’m grabbing a taxi and bringing the contract right over.”
“We’re insured, piss off.” I snap, annoyed at being interrupted.
“It’s great. It will be a two-book deal. Be with you in ten minutes,” the voice continues, undaunted.
“Two-book deal?” I choke
“Okay, three-book! That’s unheard of, but in your case…”
“I haven’t any books, only some memoirs.”
“Oh yes, you have - in your head - and we’re going to drag them out and reformat them.”
“But ..”
“No buts. We want everything you’ve ever written; kid’s compositions, letters to Father Christmas, postcards to your mother, last week’s shopping list.”
“I can’t. I don’t know where they are. I’ve thrown them away. A proper book is too hard.”
“We have people who’ll help - lots of them; noun specialists, adverbial advisors, plot consultants. One chap has a Ph.D. in semi-colons!”
“Really.” I breathe slowly and deeply, trying to take in the news. The person sounds serious. It could be recognition at last.
I repeat our street address slowly “ I’m at number 473, and then it’s O as in orange, N as in Never, T as in Toronto, A as in Auntie, R as in Rights, I as in me, and O as in Oh boy! ” I speak very distinctly so there can be no mistake. Suddenly, I realise that the voice on the line has changed from urgent and thrilled to concerned and familiar.
“I know where you live Mum. Can you hear me? Why are you giving me your address? It’s Catherine. Are you alright? You sound funny?”
“Catherine!” I emerge from the dream dazed, and scrambling to explain.
“I’m sorry, I thought it was … never mind.” I pull myself together and climb down from my swivel, remembering who I am. “Cath! Where are you, love? You sound close.”
“Yes, I wanted to surprise you. It’s a business trip. I’ve got three days. Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve brought that book you asked for. I’m at the airport. What did you think I said? I’ll just grab a taxi. Be with you in ten minutes.”
The writer’s dream?
But when living on three continents, an unexpected visitor from one you’re not on is sweet compensation.
