Anybody Can Do Anything (26 page)

Mary said, “Be sure and tell them about the short stories, the children’s stories and the t.b. book. Remember, Betty, nobody likes a one-book author.”

From that day on until I wrote my second book, Mary waved that “Nobody likes a one-book author” slogan around like an old Excelsior banner. When I finished my second book she changed it to “Nobody likes a two-book author.” Then three. But now the tables are turned because she has written her first book and I’m on my fifth.

Feeling exactly as though I were trying to join an exclusive club on forged credentials, I wrote to Brandt and Brandt and sent them the five-thousand-word outline I had shown the publisher’s representative. In my eagerness to prove that I wasn’t a stinking old one-book author I made it sound a little as though we had to wade through old manuscripts to go from room to room in our log house, and that I was a veritable artesian well of the written word. Much to my amazement and chagrin, Brandt and Brandt, immediately on receipt of my letter, wired me that they were delighted with the outline and to send every manuscript I had, which certainly wouldn’t take long.

I called Mary and told her about the telegram and she said, “Now, bonehead, are you convinced that you’re a writer or do you still want to work in some musty little office?”

We both laughed and then Mary, speaking with clenched teeth I could tell even over long distance, said, “Of course, your book will be a best seller and they’ll want you to go to New York and then to Hollywood.”

“What’s the matter with Europe?” I asked.

Mary said, “Just wait and see.”

Before I could answer Brandt and Brandt’s telegram, I got an airmail letter from them telling me that J. B. Lippincott Company, publishers, wanted to buy the book on the strength of the outline and would I accept a $500 advance? Would I accept a $500 advance? Huh, would I accept a fifty-cent advance was more like it.

I was on my way to town and had stopped at the mailbox on the way to the ferry and there nestled among a pile of bills, was this long white important-looking envelope. My first thought, of course, when I saw the Brandt and Brandt on the back, was that it was a letter taking back the telegram. I didn’t have time to open it on the dock so I waited until I was installed in the Ladies’ Cabin of the ferry before ripping open the flap and removing with trembling fingers the letter that rocked my world.

I read it over and over and with each reading it became more wonderful. My book, that nebulous product of Mary’s faith in me, had suddenly materialized into an actual thing. I was a writer and I had to tell somebody. I hurried all over the upper deck of the ferry but the cabins were empty. I went down to the car deck but there were only trucks.

When we docked at the other side, I scanned the waiting cars for a familiar face and finally in desperation rushed over to a man and his wife whom I knew very slightly and told
them that my book had been accepted and I was to get $500. I couldn’t have picked nicer people. They were as enthusiastic as though it had happened to them and I left them feeling very successful and terribly talented.

The next dandy thing that happened was the next spring when I was learning that the darkest, lowest period in a writer’s life is that awful interval between acceptance and publication. I knew I was a failure, I knew the book was no good, I was sure I was going to get the manuscript back and I had spent all the advance.

I decided to go to town and look for a job. Preferably one involving the filing of the same card over and over and over day after day. I had found a reasonable facsimile of the job I had in mind and was making my weary way home along our trail, when Anne came running to meet me calling, “There’s a telegram for you and you’re to call Seattle operator twenty-eight right away.” It’s come, I thought. They have decided not to publish the book and they’re demanding their money back. “Hurry, Betty,” Anne said. “Find out what the telegram is.” “No,” I said. “I’m going to wait until after dinner. I’d rather get bad news on a full stomach.”

After dinner I called the operator and Whispering Sam, who was at that time relaying all messages to Vashon before burning the only copy, read me a very long wire of which I got about ten words. Three of these were “Atlantic Monthly” and “serialization,” which I knew must be wrong, as the
Atlantic Monthly
represented to me the ultimate in literary achievement and I was certain they couldn’t be interested in anything I had written.

I called Mary and she immediately changed her tune from best sellers, and trips to New York, to awfully important books, not very good sellers, and trips to Boston. She said she’d call Western Union for me and call me right back. She did in a matter of minutes and told me that I was to
call Boston the next morning at eight o’clock and she thought I’d better get the next ferry and pick up a copy of the telegram which Western Union was reluctantly holding at the edge of their telegram burner. The next ferry left in sixteen minutes so I sent Anne and Joan up to stay with my sister Alison and I ran the mile and a half to the dock.

The main office of the telegraph company is located on a dark side street in the financial district in Seattle and as I got off the bus and walked in the rain across the deserted streets, I kept thinking, “This is the most important moment of my life. I must remember everything.” I felt enchanted and as though I should be leaving a trail of light behind me. My steps made no sound and I was as light as a petal when I entered the telegraph office and asked for my telegram. I read it standing by the counter and then, stuffing it in the pocket of my raincoat, I floated out to my sister Mary’s.

I told Mary about my strange enchanted feeling and she said, “You just feel successful, but imagine how I feel. All of a sudden my big lies have started coming true!”