Page 74 of By the Book

“You talked about writing without an outline,” she said. “About your best writing coming when you pushed yourself, and when you tried something new, and when you were scared. But I think what you were really saying—and I hope you’ll forgive me for putting words in your mouth—is that you were taking risks. And I think that’s wise and true. Our best writing—our truest writing, the most powerful stories we have to tell, the ones that get hammered through your heart like a nail and make the hair on your arms stand up, the ones that make every agonizing minute of pounding out keystrokes worthwhile—isn’t about revision, and it isn’t about perfect craftsmanship. It isn’t even about genius. It’s about taking risks. Writing with a kind of wildness that’s part joy and part playfulness and part defiance. And we can only do it when we’re writing about what we care about the most. About the things closest to our heart. Most writers will never do it. In part, it’s because they’re too worried about finding a publisher or hitting an Amazon bestseller list or pleasing their beta readers or, for that matter, pleasing everyone. But it’s also because writing about the things you care about most in the world, writing from and toward that place inside you that’s like a live wire—it’s terrifying, Dashiell. Which means one must be brave to do so. And you, my son, are the bravest person I know.”

I thought about my cozy noir idea, and how dumb it seemed sometimes, but also how it made me happy, and it made something shine inside me. I wasn’t sure I entirely understood what she meant, but I thought I’d felt some of it. When I’d done my best writing, as she said. When I knew—thought I knew—I was touching a place of power, even if only for a moment. Finally, I nodded.

“Now,” my mom said. “I want to tell you about something we worked out with Phil.”

“Mom, no—”

She laughed. “This has nothing to do with you, I promise. Or at least, not if you don’t want it to. We’re working out the details for a charity crime anthology. Phil is going to talk to some of his clients. We’ll reach out to our friends. The benefits will go to the Hastings Rock Public Library—I imagine, with the mayor gone, their funding will be restored, but they’ll need something in the meantime to tide them over.”

The wind carried the rustle of the hemlocks and the dusty, briny scent of the sea and the cliffs.

“Mom—”

“We’d love to have you contribute a story,” she said. “But it’s only an invitation, Dashiell. Think about it.”

I nodded. It seemed like that was all I was capable of.

“I love you,” my mom said, stretching up on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “And I’m proud of you. And your father and I will be happy to help you for as long as you need help.” She offered a wry little smile that I’d seen a time or two on my own face. “No strings attached.”

Bobby and my dad were making their way toward us, their voices growing louder as they discussed—of all things—the reliability of gunshot residue as evidence. I could feel Bobby watching me, checking, making sure.

I managed a smile. “Thank you. I know you mean that, and I’m so grateful.” I threw Bobby a glance, and he answered my smile with his own—one that said,I’ve got no idea what we’re talking about, but I’m on board. “But actually, I think I’ve got a plan for that.”

“A plan for what?” my dad asked as he and Bobby reached us.

“Not living off an allowance from my parents anymore,” I said.

My dad began to protest. My mom made some pooh-poohing noises, as though I were being ridiculous. I suffered through it, repeating my thanks and insisting that we’d be fine. Bobby gave me a considering look, but he didn’t say anything.

It didn’t last long, thank God; they didn’t want to miss their dinner reservation. A few minutes later, after hugs and kisses all around, the RV was headed down Hemlock House’s long drive, and then it reached the end and turned out of sight.

“Oh thank God,” I said, collapsing against Bobby.

He hooked an arm around me, kissed the side of my head, and said, “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was pretty bad, Bobby. They got involved in a murder investigation. You had to arrest them. All my childhood fantasies about my dad being the fastest draw in the West were obliterated.”

“He might still be the fastest,” Bobby said drily. “He’s definitely quick on the draw. And I didn’t arrest them. I mean, not technically.”

I laughed. And then I wiggled around until my nose was pressed against his, and his arms around me were warm and solid.

“Hi,” Bobby said.

“You survived my parents.”

“They’re very nice.”

“No, they’re not. I mean, they definitely weren’t nice at the beginning.”

“They’ve been worried about you. And they didn’t know me.”

“You’re a saint.”

He got a hint of that goofy smile.

“You’re the single best boyfriend who’s ever lived,” I told him.

He nodded, going for solemn and not quite making it. That goofy smile was still trying to slip out.

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