While she hadn’t expected Mr. Richards to have read her novels, his confusion signaled that he’d never even heard of her. Perhaps he’d hoped to converse with a novelist like Margaret Mitchell or Virginia Woolf.
“I write mysteries and romance,” she explained.
“It’s nice to meet you, Via.” A yawn erased any sincerity in his words. Before she spoke again, his back turned into a shield while he engaged the male panelist on his other side.
Sighing, Olivia lifted her fountain pen—a gift from Graham that she carried everywhere in case inspiration struck—and doodled on a lined tablet. Unfortunately, her aunt wasn’t among those seated in the auditorium. Hattie woke yesterday with what appeared to be a cold, and she insisted that Olivia travel to Ohio without her.
Jillian promised to check on Hattie during the next two days, and before she left for Ohio, Olivia had prepared a pot of chicken soup with carrots and celery harvested from their garden. After the panel ended tonight, she would travel the seven hours home by train.
“Welcome,” the moderator began. Professor Farrow, she assumed until he introduced himself as Dr. Howard Kinsley, editor ofThe Winfield Review.
He spoke about their new literary magazine and the college’s aspiration to foster creativity and critical thinking. As he introduced the other panelists, including Louis Bromfield, Via’s head spun with their impressive academic achievements and literary accolades along with the movies inspired by Bromfield’s novels.
When Dr. Kinsley introduced her, he read from an abbreviated biography, not bothering to mention her two years at Elmira College. “Mrs. Belle is the popular writer of thirty wholesome novels, written from a strong moral perspective. Some reviewers have called her work pious, sanitized, and overly sweet, but she has sold more than a million copies.”
As if the million copies justified morality.
Either way, it was surreal to hear a lifetime of her work summarized in less than fifty words. Perhaps the book sales, if nothing else, would persuade some of the audience to listen when she spoke.
Dr. Kinsley lowered his notes. “We’re glad you’re here, Mrs. Belle, to balance out the academic set.”
Her lips pressed into a polite smile, wondering if Dr. Kinsley planned to make light of her balancing act all evening. The division between commercial fiction and the literary sect was one of ongoing curiosity and contempt. Some authors were able to find commercial success for their literary stories, but most had to choose between esteem from the intellectual sort or a more extensive audience among regular folk.
While she’d never been interested in the complexities of what professionals deemed literary, Olivia loved poetic writing and was endlesslyfascinated by the many types of fiction written from different perspectives. A successful author always tucked some sort of personal message between the pages.
As questions began, Dr. Kinsley called on both students and professors in a fervor of inquiries, all of them directed to those sitting on Olivia’s left. The audience wanted to know about their writing process and quirky techniques. Which routines sparked their creativity. Where they got their many ideas. If they’d met Agatha Christie. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Ernest Hemingway.
Olivia listened with interest at first, fiddling with her pen. If they asked about her process, she would tell them that her best ideas were borrowed from real life, then woven into her fiction. Her techniques included all-night writing binges and walking around her lake when the words got stuck. Not that quirky, she supposed. Maybe she should tell them about the glass paperweight beside her typewriter. Or the hiding place in her turret. That might interest a few of them.
As Mr. Richards expounded on his best strategies for an interview, Olivia’s mind wandered back to the quietness of Ashe Lake. To the inspiration she once found gazing down from her turret at the water and trees. Dozens of stories were bred in that place while Graham was still alive.
After her walk two weeks ago, she hadn’t seen the shadow of a child again. Like Hattie said, her brain, void of story, had probably imagined it. What else would she conjure up if she didn’t find a story soon?
If the students asked about her writing practices, she’d tell them the ideas for her books often grew during her times in prayer. At one time, in a mystery she didn’t fully understand, God had provided her a story whenever she’d asked.
She wouldn’t tell the audience that God had felt distant for the past three years. Like He was drifting in the fog instead of lingering beside her.
“Mrs. Belle?”
She blinked as Dr. Kinsley stepped closer to the stage, clearly waiting for an answer while she was off wandering around Ashe Lake. “I beg your pardon?”
“The professor asked if you receive criticism for your sanguine plotlines.”
“I receive plenty,” she replied with a faint smile. “From newspaper critics and academics alike.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
“But not from my readers.” Her heels dug into the wooden stage, her back straight against the chair. “They write to me every day, asking for more wholesome stories. They want romance, of course, and mystery and a bit of suspense, but they also want something that inspires them in their busy life. And they don’t mind if I kill off a villain or two to make sure all is well in the end.”
More laughter, and Olivia realized she was actually enjoying herself. Leaning forward, she studied the young women in the first row. “A good writer knows her readers well, and mine want genuine love and faith. They also want good to overcome the bad in this world, and I give my readers hope, victory even, through story.”
A hand shot up in the middle of the auditorium, and the moderator nodded toward a distinguished-looking man in his thirties. Either an older student or a young professor.
The man lifted a paper to read. “A reviewer once said she preferred reading a messy story about messy people rather than Via Belle’s squeaky-clean version of romance.”
Olivia remembered that review well.Haloed heroes,the woman had called the best of men in her books. While it wasn’t meant to be flattering, Olivia had decided to take it as a compliment. In her novel following that critique, after her hero rescued an entire family from a sinking boat, she’d described the cap on his head as a halo. As far as she knew, the writer never reviewed another one of her books.
“In an interview,” the man continued, “you said there’s plenty of garbage in the world, and you didn’t want to toss more into the bin. Do you believe that most modern literature is trash?”
