Book Makers

Possessively, she held his hand and the silver-haired pair walked into the building. Slight in statute, they were actually literary giants. Familiar faces from dust jacket photos and yet the usually gregarious twenty-something me hesitated. Should I approach, welcome them to our facility? What if I were wrong about their identity? He walked ahead into the reading room while his companion came closer. She stood before me and said, "He's a very famous man. Do you know who he is?" It must be them, I thought, and so I responded with his name. Quickly I said I'd call the Director. He'd want to offer a proper greeting and any assistance whatsoever. She smiled and somehow I felt that she'd been making these remarks in many places for decades. In fact, she was nearly as revered as her spouse. Certainly the stories about her earlier life were lively. Born in 1898 in Russia, she was a young teen-ager in New York when she met him, her teacher. By the time she was 15, her mother could no longer resist the request that they marry. He, the older gentleman, had already changed her given name from 'Chaya' to 'Puck' and finally to 'Ariel' forever. A legendary story recounts how she rollerskated to City Hall for the wedding ceremony and only fell a few times along the way. Her contributions to his body of work proved so substantial through the years that she became co-author of his seminal works. When I met them briefly, they were in their seventies and more books were yet to be written. Winners of the Pulitzer Prize and the Medal of Freedom, their series, 'The Story of Civilization' remains an outstanding work of scholarship.



Will and Ariel Durant

http://www.willdurant.com/ariel.htm

He wore a suit and a smile, nestled below a full mustache. I'm clothed in anxiety. In a truly gracious gesture, he's agreed to appear at a book signing to herald his latest publication. We've talked a lot about the movie that's being cast from his story. I've argued that the main character must not be played by John Wayne. I'm in the throes of my vehement dislike of Mr. Wayne because of his stance on the Vietnam War. I won't be dissuaded. He patiently explains that although his son is writing the screenplay for the movie, he has no influence over the selection of the cast. We discuss other things, mostly books. Some days I look up from my desk and he's just there, wanting to talk. He's doing me a favor with the book event and I'm grateful. Cookies await our expected guests. A discreet pile of his new novel anchors one end of a table. We wait. There's been ample publicity. He's so well-known, a very special resident of the town. I fret, he's calm. Eventually we know. Not a single soul is going to attend. I can barely breathe. He is nonplussed. We sell one book. The author buys it himself and insists on giving it to me. "What shall I write?" he asks. I respond weakly, "To Jackie for surviving." So he wrote and I treasure those words decades later even though John Wayne did star in 'The Shootist.'



Glendon Swarthout



She stood tall and graceful like a beautifully etched figuerine from an African art collection. When she spoke, her voice was rich and melodious and so distinct that it demanded attention. Her body language was dramatic--expressed by a constant removing of her intellectual half-glasses. The room was hushed and she began first by acknowledging her audience and then with palpable power, shared her concept of commitment. She related that a good speaker demonstrates a basic concern for the human being whatever the subject of the speech. Recalling the ancient poet and playright, Terence, she repeated his words, "I am a human being, nothing human can be alien to me." She challenged the audience, nearly all of whom were librarians, to instill beauty in others and make them know their own contribution to this world. She said we must know where we came from to know where we're going. And then, raising her voice to just the right pitch, she proclaimed, "The tomorrow young people give us, we damn well deserve!" For some, these words were bitter, for others a clear reminder of thoughts unspoken, of duties unmet, of directions not taken. She's arrived in town only that afternoon, a woman whose frenetic schedule allowed no time for dallying. I'd been honored to sit in a small room with only she and the chairman of the conference. She was approachable, perhaps even a bit soft for one so lofty. Her honors were multiplying, her voice being heard around the world. She was the perfect embodiment of the conference's theme, 'Commitment.' No extra words were needed. She understood and she delivered the message unflinchingly.



Maya Angelou

Drop into town, see the local library director, get acquainted, learn a few facts, weave a story. Pick anywhere, just get the regional landmarks right and let your characters feel at home. Create a fan base that reads your prolific stories eagerly. Seek someone who'll serve as a temporary hometown editor. Perhaps a person who's also creating. Not a book, but a being. Without the largesse of the Internet, fact-checking required more mundane research and I was willing to spend the time. The author corresponded by mail in charming letters now tinged with age. An affable lady with more than twenty books already published, she'd honed her niche in the light mysteries genre. This time the locale was a famous desert resort town where I live. An imperiled woman's life entertwines with that of her great-aunt, an aging former star who hides from the world in her desert retreat. Sounds intriguing and perfect for the plot. I eagerly accepted the assignment as editor supplicant and produced pages and pages of suggestions/corrections. The name of a local river (more like a stream) needed attention. Rudolph Valentino was unlikely to have visited the area after his death. An important area resort belonged on a different street. Small things, but the author cherished authenticity, even if her readers never visited the book's locale. As I impatiently awaited the 'publication' of my own 'work,' interacting with such a respected writer provided me with topics beyond the advent of diapers, sleepless nights, and the pure joy of parenthood. As an octogenerian, the author retained her enthusiasm for characters and with unfettered energy, lived another 25 years before succumbing at the age of almost 105.



Phyllis Whitney



Writers control my life. They form words which have defined my existence from my first memories. Though my experiences with people such as the Durants, albeit briefly; Gendon Swarthout (such a dear man); Maya Angelou (so impressive); and Phyllis Whitney (truly a lady) have lingered, there is one writer whose words transform my life. I believe that if she had been physically able to write at birth, she would have done so. Words flow in her body and emerge in such beautiful sequences that often I weep at their reading. It is her name I long to see printed along a book's spine and repeated inside on the title page. She is my book maker, my daughter.



Jackie in 1982