“But that’s how I want to write. Only I can’t come up with an idea.”
“Sometimes, ideas are borne of necessity or happenstance. The way the hamburger was invented on these premises—all because one man asked for something he could carry away. And quickly.”
Barbara studied her father’s murky-brown eyes. “But how does a writer decide what to write about? How do I decide?”
“The great novelist’s imagination is a wilderness of savage truths. Or, for you, of dreamy enchantment.”
“That doesn’t help. Not with the idea part.”
“Anyway, the writer’s journey is private and subterranean. We only see the results, not the process.” He held his cigarette at arm’s length, regarding it as if it were anything but a stick of tobacco. “I happen to be finding some spark myself. I may yet write a novel.”
“I want to write savage truths, too.”
Her father thumped the ash off his cigarette. “If you don’t have a story in mind, then write letters. I get a bang out of your neatly typed pages.”
“But I want to write novels. More than anything. Only I don’t know what to do next.”
“You have an imagination as rich as any writer. You proved that in The House Without Windows. And I expect more accolades for The Voyage of the Norman D.”
But Barbara wanted to begin the next thing, to keep writing, to keep publishing. “Do you really think we shouldn’t cut my pirate poem?”
“‘Poppy Island’ is precisely the right length. You must have confidence in yourself. I say stand firm on it.”
Yes, she liked it the way it was, regardless of what that Vanity Fair editor said. Only it would have been nice to see it in print—the crowning glory of her work as a child writer. “Still, I’d like to write more than children’s adventures.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Look at Lewis Carroll.”
Barbara cast her glance aside. Winter’s oblique-angled sun streamed through the leaded windowpanes, falling on the floor and tables in trapezoid patterns. “I suppose. Everybody knows Alice in Wonderland. You’ve studied it, haven’t you?”
“It’s my job to know literature of all sorts. But it is a singular work.”
The waitress slid small round plates with hamburgers before them.
Barbara picked up her burger, clamping both hands around its crinkly-warm bun. “How do you suppose Lewis Carroll came up with Alice?”
“As the story goes, he told the tale extemporaneously. Simply to entertain his little friend Alice and her sisters. Only later did he write it down and give it nuance.”
“So, it’s complicated, isn’t it? I mean, why writers write what they do.” Barbara chomped into the burger, training her eyes on her father.
“No question. What Lewis Carroll ended up with is far more than a children’s story. He may have based some of his characters on actual British figures, like the prime minister. No doubt, he was poking fun at them.” His eyes turned soft and dreamy. He still hadn’t taken a bite of his hamburger. “But some write for love or out of trembling devotion to love.”
“What about H.G. Wells?”
“Now, there’s a man with imagination.” He butted out his cigarette. “He’s a didactic writer, but he writes with grace and humility. Look at the worlds he created—all true to the wholeness of expression he strove for. Early on, he studied biology. I suppose that helped him imagine his different worlds.”
“I used my diaries and guides of flowers and butterflies for The House Without Windows.”
“Yes, you’ve learned that lesson well—you must master all the subjects you can if you’re to serve your writing.”
“And does Mr. Wells write savage truths?”
“Most assuredly. He’s a true humanitarian; his writing is all about the democratic urge. He abhors artificial morality.”
“What’s artificial morality?”
“Superficial and ridiculous prohibitions. Rules that fly in the face of deeper truths. Like that damnable prohibition amendment. All it did was drive liquor sales underground. And foment more detestable ills.”
“I read that essay you and Mother wrote about William Dean Howells. The one where you talk about the value of the home.” Her father’s refusal to stay through the New Year still rankled; it made her think of that essay. “Do you believe in that? Or is devotion to family an artificial morality?”
“Not at all,” he said, with a sweep of his head.
“Then you should value your own family by not leaving us for weeks at a time.”
“That’s not what we’re talking about. Here’s another example of false morality—the notion that the sexes aren’t equal, that women should be honored only for birthing and raising children.”
Yes, she was annoyed with him. But he was the most brilliant father a girl could have, and he’d granted her this Saturday, all of it. She must use it to soak up what she could of his advice and wisdom. “So, Wells would say ladies can write, just like men.”
“Absolutely, he’d support the female’s prerogative to do as she pleases.” He edged the ashtray aside and stared off over her shoulder. “Even if it’s to inspire others by her selfless love.”
“I want to write more grown-up pieces, Daddy.” She paused, waiting until his gaze shifted back to her. “Can you help me find my way?”
“What you did in The House Without Windows was quite spectacular—give voice to an impressively natural and innocent imagination.” He pulled his plate closer. “You’re not unlike Wells in that respect. He created a whole new type of writing with his imaginary worlds. And The Voyage of the Norman D is an impressive account of your sea adventure.”
“But I want to write real novels.”
“Of course. Being a writer is about being creative and inventive—not following someone else’s path or even your own over and over.”
“That’s just it. I don’t know what to do next.”
“Well, don’t be like those miserable authors who write the same book time and again.”
“Like who?”
He lifted his hamburger. “Nobody worth talking about. There’s nothing more disgusting than a writer who chases after his own success.”
“What do you mean by writing the same book?”
“Using the
