Suzie’s House 143: A Walk in the Park

It was only a few months between the day I watched two red haired men run out of Cindy’s apartment during a party and the next time I ran into Suzie’s son, Ben, but it seemed like a couple of years had gone by. In that time, Ben had nearly been abducted by those red haired men, seen them arrested, been accused of insanity by a crazy teacher, sent his own father to jail for attempted murder, rescued his best friend from an abusive father, started summer vacation, and maybe acquired a girlfriend.

In contrast, I had only written a couple of books, and done a lot of walking.

Walking, if you’ll recall, brought my friends and I together in the first place. It was the reason for the party held at Cindy’s house. It was also what brought Ben back into my life.

I was moving from my warm up speed to full cardio about the time I hit the corner of Brearly and Jenifer. Foot traffic was fairly low, so most of the way was clear, and the sidewalks were in good condition. I had nice foot movement going and a steady rhythm. I could feel those endorphins kicking in. Jenifer stretched before me as inviting as a highway.

That was when Ben came along with his skateboard and knocked me down.

He was civilized about it. He stopped, helped me up and apologized profusely. Still, I wasn’t exactly in a good mood.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said as I started off again, trying to ease back into the zone.

“I’m real sorry, Mrs. Audrey. I’m so sorry.”

I waved him off, but he tucked his skateboard under his arm and hope-stepped to catch up with me.

“Was there something you wanted, Ben?” I didn’t expect him to actually have anything in mind. I figured he’d say no, give me that sheepish grin of his, and head on down the sidewalk. No such luck.

“Um… Yeah. Actually.” He was sheepish, but there was no grin. “Everyone says I should talk to you.”

“Me? What on Earth for?”

“Because you’re a writer. Right?”

“Yes,” I said cautiously. I’ve been a writer for two thirds of my life, most of that time actively working on one project or another. I’d learned the hard way that it could be very difficult to have a good conversation about it with people who didn’t do it themselves.

“And you’re published?”

“Not yet. February 3rd is when my book comes out.” This was about where the conversation usually bogged down – the point when people wanted proof that you really were a writer and not merely someone wasting her time in front of a keyboard all day. They had a way of asking questions with an eye to catching you up, and as complicated as my life tends to get, it’s easy to set them off.

“So then you can help me.”

“Um… help you?” I’ll admit I was cautious. I hadn’t had anyone ask for help in years. If he turned out to be another person who wanted a free ghostwriter I’d scream.

“Yeah. I want to be a writer too. I had this really great teacher right before school let out for Summer Vacation who showed us how to write stories. She said I’m pretty good. So, I think I want to be a writer when I grow up.”

“You poor thing,” I mumbled. His story was a little too much like my own.

“So I’ve been writing.”

“Good for you.” I tried to sound sincere, but I didn’t really want to get sucked into the pain he was setting himself up for.

“But none of it is any good.”

“Oh.” Could he really be that honest and clear eyed about his work? Most new authors couldn’t see past the heat haze that seems to be a natural part of the writing process.

“Everyone says it’s good, but I can tell they’re just saying that.”

I nodded. “People will do that.”

“Except you. I know you won’t do that.”

“Look, Ben, are you really sure that’s what you want? I’m not exactly gentle.”

That gave him enough pause that I managed to leave him behind for a step or two. Or maybe it was because we’d just passed his house. He caught up quickly.

“I want to know if I can get published.”

“Even if I read your work, I can’t tell you that. I’ve seen people I didn’t think could ever get into print do quite well and others I thought wrote beautifully never make it past the query stage.”

“Query stage? What’s that?”

“It’s where you send a letter to an editor telling him or her you have written something you think they will be interested in.”

He muttered and stared at the street as though trying to memorize what I was saying. “See. I learned something already. So. Would you do it? Would you read something I wrote and tell me if it’s any good?”

“No.” No brainier of that one. I kept walking

“Please. You can say anything and I won’t mind.”

So naive. Did he really not know how painful even the kindest criticism could be? Probably. He was only a kid.

“Please, please, please. Only this once. Please?”

I could see where this was going, and frankly it irritated me. I’m not proud of myself for what I did next, because it was petty and unkind.

I said yes.

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