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“Okay. I promise.”
He handed over all six hundred pages of the freshly printed manuscript.
“It’s still warm,” I said, laughing with excitement.
“Hot off the presses,” he said. “Can you read it today?”
“Today? The whole thing? I thought we were taking the kids tobogganing in High Park…”
“I’lltake them to the park and then to McDonald’s for dinner. You read. I want to email a copy to my editor as soon as the holidays are over, and this way, if you have any problems or suggestions, I’ll have time to make adjustments.”
“What possible suggestions could I have?”
“Well, hopefully, none. But in case I’ve made any egregious errors in spelling or grammar…”
“I’ll be sure to tell you.” I kissed him, so flattered by his trust that I almost cried. “I know I’m going to love it.”
I hated it.
Where Harrison’s first book had been short, pithy, and beautifully constructed, this book was long, self-indulgent, and unnecessarily obtuse. It was both overblown and underdeveloped. He never used one word when he could use ten. After three hundred pages, I gave up, and burst into tears.
What could I possibly say to Harrison?
It was dark when he brought the kids home. They were rosy-cheeked and exhausted, so there was no problem convincing them to get ready for bed. “Well?” Harrison asked after they were settled. “How far did you get? What did you think?”
His face fell the minute I hesitated.
“It’s probably just me,” I began.
“What’s just you?” A slight edge crept into his voice.
“It feels a little long…”
“You think it’s too long,” he said.
“There’s a lot of repetition…”
“A lot of repetition.” He nodded. “Tell me, what exactly would you cut?”
“I’m not claiming—”
“To know what you’re talking about,” he interrupted.
“It just feels a bit wordy…”
“Wordy,” he repeated, making the word sound vaguely obscene.
“Look. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m as disappointed as you are. I was hoping to love it. Iexpectedto love it. But you asked me to be honest. You said I was no good to you if I wasn’t.”
“That was because I assumed you knew how to read a manuscript.”
Whoa,I thought, understanding that no good would come of trying to press my point. “Hey. It’s just my opinion. I could be completely wrong.”
“Really? Are youeverwrong?”
I ignored the sarcasm.What’s the matter with me?I wondered.I should know that writers in general, and Harrison in particular, are notoriously thin-skinned, that as much as they might say they want an honest critique of their work, all they really want is praise. They just want to be loved. Isn’t that true of all of us?“Maybe you should ask someone else to read it.”
“Maybe I will.” He gathered up the pages from the family room sofa. Then he marched up the stairs without another word.
“Fuck,” I whispered as our bedroom door slammed behind him. Would I never learn?
The New Year arrived, and with it my usual slate of resolutions. Once again, I resolved to be more understanding and supportive, to be patient, to think twice before speaking, to be the best wife, the best mother, the best sister, the best daughter. But unlike previous years where I always fell short, I resolved that this year would be different. This would be the year it all came together. This year, I would succeed.
You hear that sound?
It’s God, laughing.
