A Novelist

The Request

The grandmother, while speaking to her favorite plant one morning, spotted Edmund perched on the couch beside the window overlooking their estate.  His feet hung off the end of the velveteen sofa and his hands were drooped over the back.  The grandmother exhaled hard out of her nose and marched over to the boy.  Scaring him off the sofa, the grandmother yelled, “Don’t sit that way, young man!  It’s not proper and it’s not good for the furniture.  Now, clean up and prepare for breakfast!  The Crawford family is arriving and I don’t want you looking like an orphan!  Go on, clean up!”  the grandmother clapped her hands and flew out of Edmund’s view.

“Yes, ma’am.”  Edmund pushed himself off the floor and headed for his room.  On his way to the stairs, he heard a knock at the door.  It was the postman.  Feeling it was for him, Edmund dashed over and flung the door open.

The postman greeted him with a warm smile.  “A letter for Edmund Seymour.”

Edmund thanked the postman and took the letter from him.  It had an unknown address from Sussex.  Closing the door behind him, Edmund eagerly opened it.

     “Dear Mr. Seymour,

     My name is James Madison. I am a publisher in Sussex. 

     I’ve seen your work in The London Times and I am

     interested in talking with you about publishing your

     work as a novel.”

Edmund’s throat went dry from surprise.  The letter continued,

      “I do require payment in advance—,”

Edmund folded the letter quickly.  Breathing heavily, he stared at the floor.  The amount of money he would have to pay an editor would disgust his grandparents; they would not lend him a coin, especially since they believed writing was a frivolous pastime.  It was apparent they lived wealthy lives, but Edmund was expected to pay for his personal expenses, and he knew his allowance wouldn’t cover an editor.  However, he wasn’t going to let this first offer involving such a sum discourage him.

"Is the letter for me?” his grandmother hollered down from the stairs in her trembling voice.

“Grandma, can I talk to you?”  Edmund’s eyes remained on the floor as he felt a cold bead of sweat dribble down the side of his face.  He heard his grandmother’s slippered feet approach him.

“What’s wrong, child?”

“I need to publish my story,” Edmund blurted out, flashing his attention to his grandmother.

The grandmother rolled her eyes and groaned mournfully.  “We had this discussion before, have we not?  You are through with writing!  As of now, you are finished.”

Edmund stepped forward and brought his hands together, pleading.  “You can’t do that to me!  It’s all I’ve got. I can’t stop!”

“What do you mean, ‘can’t stop’?  What has this writing done to your mind?  Taken control of it, that’s what!”  The grandmother stomped a heel, tossed her chin into the air and ascended the stairs.  Edmund hurried after her and clutched her thin elbow.

“Please, Grandmother, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll pay it all back!”

"Pay?” the woman squeaked, “who said anything about paying?  If the money is for your fairy tale, then you can forget about it!  Your money is going to your education, and if you know how important that is and how privileged you are, you wouldn’t be talking such nonsense!”

Edmund clasped the side of his head and let out a yell of frustration.

"Quiet, Edmund, you’ll stir the maids and they’ll all come running and imploring me all about what’s wrong with my health!  Be a good boy and don’t ask me again.” The lady scurried up the steps, carrying her heavy skirt in one hand so she wouldn’t trip.

Edmund bit his lip and rushed forward.  He grabbed the banister and pressed his face between the bars. “Please, Grandmother, let me try.  I want to at least have an editor look over it.  If he doesn’t find it suitable, I’ll never speak of this again.  I promise.”

The old lady pinched her lips and raised an eyebrow. “Is that an editor’s letter?”  Her eyes motioned to the crinkled letter in Edmund’s hands.

Edmund nodded his head and looked away in shame.  He was a persistent boy, but he didn’t like being dishonest. 

"What did he say?”

"He said he was interested, but he wanted money. And I haven’t any—at least, not a lot.  It’ll be impossible to find a publisher who will not expect something in advance.  That wouldn’t be fair.”

"Naturally.”  The grandmother looked away in thought.  She returned her half-mast eyes to her grandson and said maliciously, “When you find an editor that won’t require money, you may write.”

Edmund swung himself onto the stairs, much to the grandmother’s surprise, and stood in front of her.  “I’ll never publish my book then.  There’d be none to be found!”

"Then I guess you’ll have to give up writing.  Now, go wash up.”  The grandmother smiled in triumph and strolled up the stairs, leaving her grandson in despair.

Plopping onto the steps, Edmund pressed his forehead against his hands and shook his head.  “There must be one!  I know I am supposed to publish this.” Edmund looked at the letter again, regarding it sorrowfully.  His life was right there in front of him.  He folded his hands in front of his mouth.  His eyes fell onto the front door for no reason except that it was there.  Gazing at the symmetrical patterns and grooves in the two arched doors, he tilted his head from one side to the other, seeing if he could get a different perspective.  It wasn’t long before he slipped away into his own fantastic world.