Margot Rose

Well, at least it hasn't snowed yet, Betty McNally thought, her eyes
scanning the view from the eleventh-floor window of her condominium in
north-end Halifax. It was a chilling November morning; whitecaps and
the indigo reflections of clouds were appearing on the Bedford Basin
from unmerciful winds, while morning traffic--cars zooming like
ants--crossed the mile-long A. Murray MacKay Bridge connecting
Dartmouth. A man was walking his dog in Seaview Park.

She recalled her grandfather's words: "Red sky at night, sailors
delight." Obviously, that adage didn't apply now as she had heard on
the weather station that a major blizzard was heading towards eastern
Canada. A gorgeous scarlet skyline, which had hovered above the
twinkling lights of Bedford across the Basin, had set in last night
just before sunset. She had mentioned it on the phone while speaking
with Margot Rose, saying that it was an artist's view.

Using the tips of her fingers, Betty touched the vibrating window. She
could feel the strength of the wind against it. Oh, yes, we're in for a
major blizzard, she thought. A seagull flew by her window, distracting
her.

Betty was a tall, slender woman of thirty-eight with blue-green eyes
and short black hair peppered with gray. Her dream had always been to
publish a book of her short stories. As a child, sitting at the kitchen
table, she'd written on any scrap of paper she could find. Quite often,
cans of food would be found minus their labels--especially Carnation
milk tins. They had such smooth writing surfaces.

Through the Internet Betty had met the incredibly successful writer,
Margot Rose. Time Magazine had referred to Margot Rose as the Queen of
Words. She'd had ten bestsellers in The New York Times. She was
extremely wealthy and owned homes in New York, Beverly Hills, and
Switzerland. Born dirt poor to a farming couple outside Reston,
Virginia, Margot Rose had worked in a factory as a cleaner, writing in
every spare moment. One day a major New York publisher had sent her an
acceptance letter for her submitted manuscript. She had quit her
cleaning job and begun writing full time.

Betty took a deep breath, stepped away from the window, and sat with
her morning coffee. She smoked her first cigarette of the day, turning
on the TV to catch the local morning news. Not much was happening:
traffic was backed up because of a stalled car on the Angus L.
Macdonald Bridge; there were the usual political news flashes from
Atlantic Canada; and the local weather report said that indeed a fierce
storm for all of eastern Canada was in the works.

Betty thought of Margot Rose. She had watched her on "Larry King Live"
last night on CNN. Her favorite author had seemed totally in charge of
the conversation and of the questions that Larry had asked. After the
interview, Larry had held up Margot's latest book, stating, "It's an
excellent read, but a couple of disturbing themes that will blow your
mind--engaging!" Good one, Betty mused. Margot Rose had always told
Betty that there was no such thing as bad publicity.

Betty had needed to find out how to have her short stories copyrighted
and edited by someone who wouldn't mess with them. "This is very
important," Margot Rose had warned. "If you make mistakes in grammar,
you won't be taken seriously!" Betty had self-published. She had been
able to find a suitable printing company that hadn't charged an arm and
a leg.

"Just get two hundred copies printed at first," Margot had recommended.
"And forget about going hardcover. You just need to get your name out
there. The second printing is cheaper."

Betty had been a fan of Margot Rose's work for ten years. She had read
everything the woman had written. She particularly liked the way Margot
Rose combined both historical and current happenings in her fiction.
And Margot Rose used the theme of strong family support in every one of
her books. "I screwed up with my own family," Margot Rose had told
Betty. "At least in my books I can become a part of a new one while I'm
writing them."

Margot Rose wrote about powerful topics such as AIDS and religion, and
delved into the issue of whether or not women really were that much
happier in today's workforce. It turned Margot Rose's stomach that
women were being brainwashed into believing that only the most
successful women were worthy as people, as opposed to stay-at-home
moms.

Betty had e-mailed Margot Rose two years ago, attaching one of her
short stories, doubting that she'd get a response. Margot Rose had her
own Web site, but of course it was monitored by a company. It said that
although Margot Rose enjoyed hearing from her readers, it was
impossible for a personal response to e-mails, although every one was
read by the author. Yeah, right. To Betty's surprise, Margot Rose had
replied, thanking Betty for the opportunity to read the story. Margot
Rose had asked if Betty would be receptive to some writing tips and
advice. Amazed, Betty had immediately agreed. Margot Rose had taught
Betty that once she had written something, she should leave it alone
for a few days, even a week, and then look at the material again. She
had told Betty to fight the urge to rush the work. Margot Rose had said
that writers were very impatient by nature and that this pitfall had to
be overcome in the process of writing.

During the following months, the two women had become close friends.
Margot Rose had begun to telephone Betty to discuss her writing in more
detail. Betty was always amazed when she picked up her telephone to
learn that Margot Rose might be calling from Australia, for example.
"Bet, I just arrived here from Hawaii. I'm bushed!"

Betty had asked about Mary Higgins Clark and Stephen King. Had she met
them? Then she had felt stupid and childish for asking. Had Margot Rose
ever visited their homes or been in the same waiting room with them in
a publisher's office? Did famous writers have to comply with all the
rules of manuscripts required of a new beginner? Who was the most
famous person who had ever written to her about her books? Margot Rose
had answered every single question in detail, ending with, "Hillary
Clinton swears she has one of my books lying facedown on her bed every
night before she snaps off her bedside lamp!"

While publishing her book, Betty had continued to work as a waitress at
a local restaurant. The hours were long, but the pay was not bad, and
her boss, Walter, was kind. She had heard horror stories about other
bosses and was truly grateful to have such a kind one. However, her
mind had always been on her writing. She didn't write for fun or
because it was a hobby. She needed to write! It was an addiction, like
nicotine or caffeine.

Betty had needed to ask Margot Rose many questions because she had
absolutely no connections in the publishing world. The library had an
ample supply of books, but most of them were of no real help to someone
who was just starting out and who didn't have any money. Those books
were too long, and they detailed too many facets of the writing
process.

Margot Rose had explained to Betty that she needed an International
Standard Book Number--a ten-digit "identification" number. "Look on any
book; you'll probably find one."

"How do I get one of those?" Betty had asked.

"I believe in Canada you'd contact the National Library. I'm not sure,
but you may be able to order it online."

"I hope this is free." Betty had held her breath. Not another damn
expense, she'd hoped.

"No, sorry. Nothing is free, Bet."

One particularly hard day, Betty had dropped to her knees, folded her
hands together, and prayed. She had wanted to know if she was merely
chasing rainbows. Does a waitress really have any chance without the
financial backing of a publisher and without the help of
agents/promoters? she had questioned. Weren't there literally thousands
of writers who were better than she? Was she merely a fool? What reader
would actually waste his money on something she, Betty, had
written?

Just before her book was printed, Betty had planned her book launch. To
help her save on costs, Margot Rose had suggested not mailing out
invitations to friends but to simply tell them personally. She had told
Betty to use any money she had on writing short personal letters to
local media, asking them to attend. She had suggested Betty have the
launch, perhaps, at the restaurant where she worked, after hours.
"Everyone loves food," Margot Rose had reminded her. Betty had said the
restaurant was open late every night except Sundays. "Well, have the
launch on Sunday night, then. Look, you have a fine boss. Use what
you've got, Bet. People will know you don't have a lot of money, but
you can certainly have coffee and tea available. Once everyone is
there, read one of the stories from your book. Thank the media for
coming by giving them a free copy of your book." This had upset Betty
at first, but Margot Rose had explained that the price of the book
would cover itself if any media person drew attention to it. "While
you're at it," she had added, "tell them that you'll be available for
interviews."

When the printed book had finally arrived, Betty had given copies to a
few close friends, including Walter, her boss, who'd said, "It's good,
Betty. You've fulfilled a dream."

Margot Rose had suggested putting up letter-size posters everywhere
that Betty could think of. "Don't go to a printer. Make them yourself."
She had advised Betty to talk about her book to everyone. "Leave no
stone unturned, Bet! Get the Yellow Pages out! Use the Internet, and
talk about yourself in chatrooms and newsgroups. Promote yourself! Keep
plugging away!"

Usually, Betty had kept her negative thoughts to herself and hadn't
told Margot Rose her doubts. She'd thought, Here's a famous writer. I
can't possibly tell her I'm scared. For one thing, she'll think I'm
hinting for financial help, and I'm not. That would be terrible! Margot
Rose had given her the incentive to keep trying. Margot's favorite
starting line to Betty's e-mails had been: "Look, Bet, perhaps there is
a way. . . ."

Betty stubbed out her second cigarette, got up, and walked again to the
window. The traffic was still heavy on the bridge. The storm clouds
were getting even darker. She noticed a few flakes of snow hitting the
window. It's coming, she thought. She went back to sit on the sofa and
picked up the copy of her book from the coffee table. On the cover it
read: "New York Times bestseller."

The telephone rang. She knew it would be Margot Rose.