Open Writing

Mabel Perkins loved to read. Before she’d retired, she read while she was getting ready for work, travelling there and back, during her tea and meal breaks and in the evening until she fell asleep. Now there were no restrictions on her time, apart from a monthly book club meeting, where she gathered with a group of friends to discuss what they had each been reading, she read all day and far into the night, often not even stopping to prepare a meal. The librarian at the local library joked soon there wouldn’t be a book on the shelves Mabel hadn’t read. Mabel had to agree it was becoming more difficult to find a book which appealed and the day was rapidly approaching when she would have to get her books from the main library in the city.

Although she had never been outside her own country, her love of reading had taken her to exotic locations like Tokyo, Tahiti, Shanghai and New York. As long as she kept on reading, she reasoned, she’d continue to live an exciting and satisfying life without leaving home. As far as she was concerned reading beat television hands down, as it was up to her when to stop for a break and there were no advertisements.

Mabel had a very vivid imagination and lived every word she read. Consequently her love of books led her on a merry-go-round of emotion. The compassion she had felt for the heroine in the book she’d just finished had brought her to tears.

As she sat wiping her eyes and mulling over what it had been about the story that had made it so real, the thought came to her that she could write a book. All she’d need would be an enthralling plot with plenty of conflict, believable characters, convincing dialogue, an enticing beginning, an entertaining middle and a satisfactory ending. She’d spent 40 years teaching English and History which gave her an excellent background to write an historical novel. She turned the idea over in her mind for a moment; yes, she thought that’s what I’ll do. I’ll write an historical novel and I’ll start tomorrow.

That night Mabel was unable to sleep her mind was so full of plans for her novel. At 5am just as the sun came up, Mabel gave up all thought of sleep. She got out of bed, dressed, downed a cup of tea and a piece of toast and then sat at her computer. Once she started writing she couldn’t stop. No writers’ block for her. The words came into her mind faster than she could type. It was as if the story had been in her head all the time and once awakened it was eager to be written.

Her friends at the book group were not very encouraging when she told them she would not be attending the group’s meetings for a while because she was busy writing a novel. One said, “I hope you realize you’re going where many others have gone and failed.”

Another said, “You’ll have no hope of getting it published. Publishers receive hundreds of manuscripts each week from would be authors and most of them are rejected.”

A third said, her sister sent off a manuscript to a magazine and she didn’t even get a reply. In fact, they all seemed to know somebody who had written a book which was never published.

One particularly obnoxious woman, to whom Mabel had never taken a liking, said if Mabel was going to have a career as a writer, it would have happened long before now.

“Thank you, for your words of support,” hissed Mabel.

The convener of the group, trying to bring the situation under control, said diplomatically she was sure all the members of the group wished her well and they all looked forward to seeing Mabel’s book on the ‘Ten Best Reads” shelf in the library.
Although there had never been any doubt in Mabel’s mind her first foray into writing would be successful, the negativity of her friends fueled her resolve. She laboured over her manuscript for the next six months, researching, writing, editing and rewriting. There was certainly more to writing a novel than she had first thought.

The first draft had been easy to write, it was the editing which proved difficult. Just when she was satisfied she had finished, she would read it over and see something else that needed changing. If nothing else she was a perfectionist.

Once the manuscript was finally to her liking she was eager to send it off to a publisher. There were over thirty listed in the Yellow Pages of the phone book. She had no idea whether one was better than another, so she addressed the envelope to Abbott Publishers; the first on the list.

Six weeks later she received a letter from Abbotts, offering a sum of money for the sole rights to her manuscript. Mabel had never given any thought to payment. Success to her was getting it published, so this was a pleasant surprise. She immediately sent a reply accepting the offer. As far as she was concerned her novel belonged to them now, she would give it no more thought as she was anxious to get back to her reading.

Several months later, Mabel was surprised to get another letter from Abbotts. Goodness, thought Mabel, had they decided not to publish her manuscript after all? She opened it in anticipation, but was relieved to find it set up an appointment for her to meet with Cynthia Abbott, the editor responsible for her book. The letter went on to say how delighted they were with the way her novel was selling.

Also enclosed were a couple of reviews of Mabel’s novel. One critic called it ‘an ambrosia of phrases,’ and commented, ‘such an innovative use of words was seldom seen in a novice writer.’ Another described it as, ‘a symphony of words.’

Mabel felt a glow of pride “Silly me,” she said to herself, “I never thought of looking in a bookshop for my book.” She made a mental note to do so next time she was in town. But why would Miss Abbott want to see her? It was intriguing.

As requested she went into Abbotts’ office at the appointed time. Miss Abbott was a severe looking woman with graying hair drawn back into a chignon. She wore a dark grey trouser suit and horn rimmed glasses. Mabel felt somewhat intimidated.

“Delighted to meet you,” said Cynthia Abbot coming from behind her desk to shake Mabel’s hand. Returning to her seat, she launched into a non stop diatribe, while at the same time waggling a pen in Mabel’s direction. “We’ve decided to do another run of your book, but we would like to give it more publicity to boost sales further. I can arrange local TV and radio interviews and I think some public appearances at bookshops throughout the country would be in order. You have a great career ahead of you as a writer, so it would be a good idea to get yourself an agent. By the way, have you started on your next novel? I would be grateful if you could let me have a synopsis as soon as possible.”

“Enough!” shouted Mabel, louder than she had intended. “Enough!” she repeated. a little more quietly. She got to her feet, her intimidation completely forgotten.

Aghast Cynthia Abbott stopped talking. The waggling pen dropped to the floor.

“Miss Abbott,” said Mabel, “I spent 40 years as a teacher and every one of those years I looked forward to the day I retired so I could indulge my passion of reading. Now that day has come, I have no intention of spending my time touring up and down the country making an exhibition of myself, nor do I intend to write another book. If you wish to print another run that is up to you, but you will be doing it without my help. Good day to you, I’m anxious to get back to my reading.”

A flabbergasted Cynthia Abbott sat with her mouth open as Mabel left the office.

The following week, when Mabel was at the library stocking up on reading material, she found among the many new titles on the shelves a copy of her own novel. She took it from the shelf and held it. It seemed unbelievable she had written something other readers would get enjoyment from. She felt like shouting, look everyone I wrote this book. She thought of her friends at the book club, then surreptitiously placed it on the shelf marked “This month’s Ten Best Reads”.