burst out laughing through the tears that had sprung to her eyes. “You need to ask someone who knows commercial fiction. She doesn’t.”
“She said it’s crap, in so many words.” Liz’s lip trembled, and Olivia took her hand and raised it to her lips and kissed it.
“That means you would flunk her class at Princeton. But Princeton is not the world.” She kept a tight grip on Liz’s hand. “Do you see this boat? We chartered it for a fortune, and we can afford to. We could even buy it if we wanted to, and that’s from selling decent commercial goods, not fine antiques. But what I sell looks great, people love it, and they come to our stores all over the world to buy it. Commercial literature is what sells, Liz, not the kind of stuff Sarah thinks you should write. Will you let me read it? I promise I’ll be honest with you. But I just have a feeling it might be good. You’re a smart girl, and a great writer, and I trust your instincts too, and I can tell you’re excited about it.”
“I was,” she said in a dull voice, as two tears rolled down her cheeks. “What if you tell me it’s as bad as Sarah said?”
“Then you’ll write something else. It’s not the end of the world. Listen, some of the lines of furniture I’ve designed have been pretty bad. It’s all about trial and error, and having the guts to try again.”
“That’s what I don’t have,” Liz answered honestly. “I always fail. And I’m scared to try again.”
“Try not to be. You have so much more talent than you think.” Olivia held her hand out then, for Liz to give her the manuscript, and Liz hesitated. “I want it now, please. If your literary snob of a sister-in-law can read it, so can I. Besides, I think what she said was mean. Maybe she’s jealous because she doesn’t have the imagination you do.”
“Believe me, Mom, she’s not jealous. She just thinks it stinks.”
“I’m betting that she’s wrong,” Olivia said firmly, but Liz still didn’t move. “Look, let me make this clear to you. I’m a powerful woman. People all over the world are terrified of me. So what’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you doing what I say?” Liz laughed at what her mother said.
“Because you’re my mom and I love you, and I know you’re not scary, you’re just a big fake. You just pretend you’re scary.” Olivia laughed at what she said.
“Just don’t tell my competitors that. I hear they’re scared to death of me. So give me your book.” And with that, Liz finally pulled it out of her bag and handed it to her mother with a look of pain.
“If you hate it, just don’t tell me how much. We’ll throw it overboard together, or have a ceremonial book burning or something.”
“We’ll see. I’ll be honest, but polite, which is more than I can say for Sarah. I’m not sure calling someone’s book unreadable is considered good manners in the publishing world. Maybe we should discuss her wardrobe with her. She looks like she got it at Goodwill.” Liz laughed again. “And I don’t think she shaves her legs. She’s lucky your brother is crazy in love with her. A lot of men would think hairy legs and Birkenstocks with hiking shorts are not so cute. Maybe John needs his eyes checked. I’ll have to mention that to him,” Olivia said with a pensive look, and then stood up with Liz’s book in her arms.
“Thank you, Mom. It’s okay if you hate it. I kind of expect it now, it won’t come as such a shock. I was really excited about it, until I showed it to her. I thought I had done something special and unique, but I guess not.”
“Don’t be so quick to accept defeat,” Olivia scolded her. “If you believe in this book, fight for it. Don’t just lie down and give up.”
“I can’t fight for it if it’s no good.”
“How many bad reviews did Shakespeare have? Or Dickens? Victor Hugo, Baudelaire, Picasso? All great artists get bad reviews. Let’s not give this up quite so quickly. And no matter what I think, good or bad, you should still call your agent when you get back. He’s the best judge of what sells.”
“I haven’t spoken to him in three years. He’s probably forgotten who I am.”
“I doubt it—your short stories were great. You have talent, Liz.