Chapter 7
Alex had taken on a heavy load of six classes for her first semester. She wanted to get her required classes out of the way as quickly as possible, so she could take more that she would enjoy. But she found that she liked the ones she had signed up for, including an eighteenth-century English literature class, which required writing. She knew it was good for her to write more than crime stories and mysteries. She took history and a math class, and a women’s studies class. She had a lot of reading to do at night, and loved being challenged by the work. Most of her high school classes had been easy for her, and it was exciting to be taking more challenging courses, taught by professors she admired. She noticed that one of her roommates studied as much as she did and they went to the library together. She was from Hong Kong and a physics major. She’d wanted to go to MIT and didn’t get in, but was hoping to try again and transfer for sophomore year. They never saw their other roommate, who was out all the time and had met a boy she was crazy about the first week.
At the end of her first month, Alex went home to the convent, delighted to see the nuns and have a weekend with them, although she had brought home a lot of reading to do, and had a paper to write for her English lit class. She hadn’t had time to write any of her own stories for a month, and was frustrated about it.
Sister Regina came to her room after dinner on her first night back, and they talked late into the night. Regina was as troubled as ever about her vocation qualms, and she was debating about talking to Mother MaryMeg about it. She had seen other nuns leave over the years, and told Alex she didn’t want to be one of them, but staying in the life she had chosen was becoming harder and harder. She had been depressed for months thinking about it, and Alex was worried about her.
“You should talk to Mother MaryMeg,” Alex encouraged her. She didn’t know what else to advise, and the choice that women made who wanted to be nuns was still a mystery to Alex, even after living with them for four years. She believed in God, but her religious convictions were not strong enough to make her want to give up the world. She had never been in love and had dated only a few times, for proms, or gone to the movies in groups, but the idea of never marrying and never having kids still seemed strange to her, and an unnatural choice, so she sympathized with Sister Regina’s confusion. Regina had started writing, inspired by Alex, but it was more of a distraction, or an outlet of some kind, not a burning desire like what drove Alex, who was compelled to write. But she thought that Regina’s short stories were good.
“What kind of work would you do if you left?” Alex asked her.
“Teach, like I do here.” But leaving the convent would be like leaving the womb, and the thought of it frightened her enough to keep her there for the time being. But she wasn’t happy, and Alex could see it. She didn’t know what the right answer was for her, and didn’t feel she had the experience to advise her.
Alex came home to the convent again for Thanksgiving, and for the Christmas holiday and semester break, and she had a chance to write then. She had an idea for a novel, but decided to wait until the summer when she had more time.
Her classes were keeping her busy. But in spare moments between assignments, she worked on the outline for the book, which was gnawing at her loudly by spring. She knew she had a story in her, and had to get it out. She couldn’t wait for her classes to end in May to start the book. She vacated her room at the dorm, since she would get a new room in a different dorm in the fall, and moved back to the convent. Her first night back, she started work on the novel, which had been developing in her head for months. She worked day and night for the first three weeks and hardly left her room, and she had several chapters written before she began a summer job in a bookshop that specialized in rare books and first editions. Her father had bought books there frequently, and they were impressed by her knowledge, and offered her the job for two months.
She came home from work and wrote every night, and in the last week of August she finished the first draft of her book. It was perfect timing, since she was going back to school the following week. Alex sat staring at four hundred pages of manuscript in her hands the night she finished. She was nineteen years old and had just written her first book. She was so excited she could hardly breathe, and couldn’t sleep all night, thinking about it.
She saw Mother MaryMeg at breakfast the next day, who commented that she looked like she’d had a rough night. To her knowledge, Alex still had no social life. She preferred to spend every moment on her book, and was more interested in writing than dating.
“I finished the book last night, the first draft,” she said, looking awestruck. She felt as though someone else had done it, channeling through her. Her father maybe. Another writer. Someone. She couldn’t believe she’d done it, and felt a little lost without the book to work on. The final weeks had been intense, and she’d worked until three or four A.M. every night, and until dawn occasionally, and then showered and dressed for work. She’d finished her job at the bookshop a few days before, and now the book.
The mother superior smiled at her, impressed by her dedication. There was no question that Alex was a writer. It was in her bones and her blood, a force she couldn’t stop and didn’t want to. “Would you read it for me?” Alex asked in a low voice. “I don’t know if it’s any good or not, or if I should just throw it away.” She’d had her doubts about it several times, and needed someone to read it objectively now. She knew that her work upset Sister Xavier, and mysteries didn’t interest Sister Regina, but Mother MaryMeg was always curious about her work.
“I’m sure it’s very good, Alex. I’d love to read it.” Twenty minutes later, Alex was in her office with the ragged manuscript in her hands. She had made many corrections and changes, and the pages were a mess. She handed it to the superior, who took it from her and set it on her desk. “I’ll start it tonight,” she promised. Alex would have been relieved to see her light on until three in the morning. Alex slept like a baby that night, free at last of the story that had pounded through her and tormented her for months.
She noticed that the superior looked tired the next day, but didn’t dare ask what she thought of it so far. She was sure that she would hate it, or tell Alex she had gone too far this time. It was a strong book, with a terrifying story and multiple mysteries to solve, and had been difficult to write, like riding five horses at once in a circus act and not losing control.
Two days later, Alex was talking to Regina quietly after breakfast when the superior walked by and asked Alex to come and see her in her office. Alex and Regina exchanged glances. Regina looked panicked, afraid that Mother MaryMeg had guessed that she was having doubts about her vows. The mother superior always knew everything as though she had a sixth sense. Alex was subdued when she walked into her office a few minutes later.
“I should be angry at you,” Mother MaryMeg said seriously, as Alex sat down across from her. “I haven’t slept in three days, thanks to your book.” As she said it, Alex started to look relieved, but not entirely yet. She wanted to know what she’d thought of it. “It’s extraordinary, Alex. One of the best books I’ve ever read. It’s bound to get published, and will certainly get your career going as a writer. You have to get it to a publisher.” Alex looked stunned by what she was saying.
“You liked it?” Her voice was an anxious whisper as the mother superior smiled broadly.
“I loved it. Or I was mesmerized by it and totally in its grip. I’m not sure ‘love’ is the right word for a book with such heinous people in it, but your plot is brilliant, and the way you control it is masterful. I don’t know where you get the stories from, but it’s remarkable. You need to get it to a publisher. It’s a very, very powerful book.”
“I can’t get it to a publisher without an agent,” she said miserably, “and I don’t know how to find one. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. A publisher won’t take it seriously unless it comes through an agent. They might not even read it without one.”
That sounded harsh to Mother MaryMeg, but she took Alex at her word, and wondered how she could find one.
“And an agent will know who would want to publish a book like mine.”
“Let me think about it, and try to figure out who I know, or someone else does. Somebody must know a literary agent.” She handed the book back to Alex, congratulated her again, and told her she’d see what she could find out.
Alex walked upstairs to her room, dazed by what Mother MaryMeg had said about the book. Regina stuck her head out as soon as Alex walked past her door. “Did she say anything about me? Was it that?” she whispered nervously.
“No, she liked the book. She said I should get it to a publisher, but I don’t know how.” Sister Regina looked instantly relieved, and apologized for leaping at her.
“I’m just so afraid she knows what I’m thinking. She always knows everything that’s going on.” They attributed magical powers to her, but this time Regina was wrong. It was only about her book.
Two days later, Mother MaryMeg came to see Alex in her room. “I’ve talked to everyone I know who might know an agent or a publisher, and this is the best I could do,” she said, handing a piece of paper to Alex, with her firm handwriting on it. It was a woman’s name, a phone number, and an address in New York. “One of the sisters had a brother-in-law in publishing. He’s retired, but he said he’d ask around about agents for you. He just called me back. He said he’s never met this woman, but she has a good reputation. She represents a number of successful authors, and she might not see you. But if not, she may recommend someone who would. Her name is Rose Porter. Why don’t you call and see if you can get an appointment with her?” Alex held on to the piece of paper like the Holy Grail, and thanked her, and Mother MaryMeg went back to her office. She was a miracle worker after all. Alex tried to compose herself, and called from the phone downstairs a few minutes later. Her hands were shaking when she did.
A young female voice answered crisply. “Porter, Stein, and Giannini,” she said, and Alex almost hung up she was so terrified. She asked to speak to Rose Porter, and they put her on hold for what seemed like forever, as she clung to the receiver with a damp hand. And then the voice came back and told her to hold again while they connected her. She had given her name as Alex Winslow, which would mean nothing to Rose Porter. And they hadn’t asked what the call was about, which seemed strange. Alex couldn’t know that the girl answering was a summer temp, and was putting calls through left and right, luckily for her. A moment later a female voice came on the line that sounded serious and impressive, and slightly impatient.
“What’s this about?” she asked in a clipped tone.
“I wrote a crime thriller, it’s four hundred and twelve pages long. I’ve sold stories to mystery magazines. This is my first book, and I need an agent.” The person at the other end laughed.
Rose Porter guessed easily that the caller was young and scared to death. Normally she would have her mail the book, and she’d have someone else read it. But there was something compelling about the voice, it was so intense. It had obviously taken every ounce of courage she had to make the call. Alex remembered then to say who had recommended her, although the agent probably didn’t know him.
“What makes you think you can write a crime thriller?” Rose Porter asked, curious about her.
“I’ve been reading them since I was ten years old. They’re my passion, and so is writing.”
“How did you get your hands on them at ten?”
“My father gave them to me. They were his passion too.”
“Young women don’t usually write crime thrillers,” she said bluntly.
“I know, my father told me that too. I publish my stories in magazines just using an initial and my last name. I could use a pseudonym for the book.” The woman at the other end laughed again. Alex had been thinking a lot about whether or not to use a man’s name, remembering her father’s advice.
“Maybe I should read it first, before we start worrying about pseudonyms.” She hesitated for what seemed like a long time, while she thought about it. “I’d like to meet you. Why don’t you bring it in?” Alex held her breath for a minute and thought she might faint.
“When?”
“Does tomorrow at three work for you?”
Alex couldn’t believe it. “Yes, of course, I’ll be there.” She would have walked to New York on bleeding feet if she had to.
“Tell me your name again,” the agent said, sounding distracted.
“Alexandra Winslow.”
“Right, Miss Alexandra Winslow. See you tomorrow at three.”
Alex thanked her profusely and hung up, and ran into Mother MaryMeg’s office to tell her. She was nearly hysterical. “I’m going to New York tomorrow…to see her…to meet her…and give her the book…Can I use the copy machine?” The mother superior said she could, and Alex spent the next hour copying the manuscript on their old machine, so she could keep a safety copy for herself.
She didn’t tell anyone else she was going, and the next morning she took the train to New York and arrived at Penn Station at two P.M. She was wearing a simple black dress and flat shoes and it was a blisteringly hot New York day. Alex took a cab to the agent’s office on Fifth Avenue, near Rockefeller Center, and arrived for the appointment ten minutes early, clutching her manuscript to her chest. She gave the receptionist her name. It was the same girl she’d spoken to the day before.
She had a fifteen-minute wait and then a small, impeccably dressed woman appeared, in a navy blue Chanel suit, with high heels, a short, stylish haircut, and large glasses. She looked Alex over intently, and guessed instantly who she was, and smiled.
“Why don’t you come to my office, Alexandra,” she said formally, and Alex followed her down a long carpeted hall with expensive art on the walls to a corner office with an impressive view and an enormous desk. Rose Porter looked tiny behind her desk, but she had a huge presence, and Alex was terrified.
“That’s the book?” She pointed to the manuscript pressed to her chest, as Alex nodded. Rose Porter held a hand out, and Alex passed it to her, feeling as though she were giving up her first child. The agent thumbed through it for a minute and then smiled at her again. “I can tell you worked hard on it,” she commented, noticing all the corrections and added pages.
“I did.” It had been a long time since Rose Porter had seen a manuscript as battered. You could tell it was Alex’s first book.
“I like the title.” She had called it Blue Steel. “How old are you, Alexandra?” There was something very touching about her as she sat there, scared stiff. Rose had been known to frighten people intentionally, but she felt sorry for this intense young woman who was so obviously desperate to publish her book.
“Nineteen,” she said, looking Rose in the eye, and the agent winced.
“I figured maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, although you look about fourteen.” She’d assumed she had to be considerably older than she appeared. “We won’t tell a publisher your age, if we get one.”
“Or my name,” Alex said firmly. “I want to publish under a male pseudonym.” Alex had made the decision. Rose looked surprised.
“That gets complicated, particularly if the book does well, or you write others after this. Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Yes. Readers won’t take me seriously if they think I’m a girl. My father told me that.”
“I don’t agree. But why don’t I read the book first, and then we’ll talk about it. You live in the city?”
Alex shook her head. “In Boston.”
“And you came down to meet me?” She was stunned at that.
Alex nodded.
“I’m very grateful that you agreed to see me,” she said in a rush, and Rose found it refreshing to talk to someone so grateful and undemanding. She had a roster full of difficult writers who thought the world of themselves and expected the moon of their publishers and agents. Alex was a breath of fresh air.
“Where can I get in touch with you?”
Alex wrote down her name, phone number, and address. “I go to Boston College.” But she had given her the convent number for messages.
“You may not hear from me for a while. I have several trips planned, and I don’t usually read new authors, but I’ll try to read this one when I have time.” Something told her that Alex was special and different, and she didn’t want to rely on someone else’s judgment about her book. Once in a while someone like her came in off the street, out of nowhere, with a fantastic book. She wanted to be sure that she didn’t miss it. She had an odd, inexplicable feeling about Alex. Sometimes exceptional writers were compelled to write at her age. Maybe she was one of them, and the type of book she had chosen was definitely unusual for a woman.
Rose Porter stood up then, with Alex’s book between them on her desk. She saw the way Alex looked at it, and she smiled at her. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise. I assume you made a copy.” She didn’t want the responsibility of keeping the only existing copy of the book.
“Yes, I did.” Alex thanked Rose again for seeing her, and a moment later, she left the office, went down in the elevator, and wanted to scream when she reached the street, she was so excited. She walked back to Penn Station in the deadly heat and felt like she was walking on air. Whatever happened now, she knew she had done her best. She had written the book and gotten it in the hands of an agent. After this, as Mother MaryMeg would say, it was up to God.