I found myself thinking of Steinbeck as more than a Nobel Prize–winning author. He’d been a regular person with a life and a family. A father giving advice on love.
“Here we are,” she continued. “Another fatherly bit of advice. Sometimes people find themselves in love with someone who doesn’t return their affections, but that does not invalidate the feeling, because it is always beautiful to love. And as a final note, Steinbeck reminds his son that his words come from a place of understanding, because he, too, is in love, and he’s quite happy that his son has found this great joy.”
She set the paper down and searched our expressions. “Steinbeck loved. His son loved. They loved romantically. They loved one another. Love is powerful, crippling, and motivating. But always universal. So”—she set the paper aside and clasped her hands—“let love be your inspiration this week. Write to someone you love. Write about someone you love. Write with love. Your choice. Take a deep breath. Think. Then write.”
Several classmates went to work immediately.
I stared, unsure how I could muster anything good enough to follow Steinbeck.
Eventually Annie came to mind, and I began to write. The words were casual at first, like a diary entry, then too formal. I crumbled the sheets and started again, this time writing to my parents. It didn’t takelong before my hostility over a million small offenses stopped me midsentence. I balled that page up as well.
The woman on my right sighed. “Why is this so much harder than it should be?”
“Right?” I rolled my eyes, then lowered my forehead to the table briefly.
“Is this your first class?” she asked.
I puffed my cheeks as I straightened. “Yep.”
She smiled. “Me too. I’m Daisy.”
We fell into an easy rhythm, writing for a few minutes, then taking breaks to complain, refresh our drinks, or get to know one another a little more. Daisy was Annie’s age and a graduate student at UMass working on her MFA. Her big blue eyes, golden curls, fair skin, and dusting of freckles reminded me of the china dolls my grandmother had collected.
“Did I hear you mention Emily Dickinson?” Daisy asked. “I’m writing my dissertation on her vivid portrayal of nature in prose.”
“That’s amazing,” I said, loving Daisy all the more. “I’ve been in love with Dickinson’s poetry since I was ten. I’m here on a quest, and she’s my muse.”
Daisy chewed her powder-pink lip. “I love a good quest. How much do you know about Emily?”
“Quite a bit,” I admitted. “I’ve been obsessed with her poetry since I was a kid. I plan to visit her home while I’m in town. Maybe even today.”
“Excellent idea. Society tends to romanticize her, but in truth, she was a bit of a weirdo.”
An unexpected bark of laughter broke on my lips. I was on the side of society.
Daisy wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. An eccentric?” she tried.
“You’re the expert,” I said, still smiling. And by most accounts, my life in Willow Bend made me a bit of a weirdo too. Thirty-one andsingle, spending all my time alone at the bookstore, wishing for something big to happen and hating every day that it didn’t.
“So far, the most relatable thing about Emily Dickinson for me is her love of ice cream,” Daisy said. “Do you know the story?”
I did, and I searched my memories for the details.
“She rarely left home, but she went to Washington with her father and sister when she was around my age,” Daisy said. “He was a member of the Whig Party.”
A little zing of electricity carried up my spine. I’d never met anyone else invested in Emily’s life. “That’s right.”
“She had her first taste of ice cream in Washington,” Daisy said. “She loved it, which wasn’t surprising. She loved all sorts of sweets. Cakes. Doughnuts—”
“And she loved to bake,” I said.
Daisy’s smile grew. “She went back for more ice cream every day in Washington. I’ve never related to anyone more.”
We laughed, and I lifted my coffee cup in a toast.To new friends,I thought.Thanks, Emily!
“Who are your letters for?” Daisy asked.
I looked at the growing pile of paper carnage. “Family, but I think it’s going to take more than this class period to write anything worth reading.”
