Anya's Masterpiece

She wrote it when she was twenty-three
And nobody ever let her forget it

Twenty-three

Everyone found it remarkable
That a twenty-three year old girl
Could write four hundred pages
Of sheer perfection

What she always wanted to tell them
Was that it is far more likely
That a twenty-three year old
Would take on four hundred pages
With such abandon
And succeed at it

When you're forty-six
You're busy worrying about what you did
When you were twenty-three
And how you're going to do better

Essentially you're up against someone younger
With more energy, less expectation
And no daughter's wedding to plan

Anya was planning her daughter's wedding
And trying to finish The Book

The Book in big letters
Because every book is The Book
Until it is published
And autographed
And read from
And shelved
And then there is a New Book
And The Book becomes The Last Book

Anya is getting lunch with her daughter
So they can discuss the wedding reception
And the cake, and the photos
And the dress
But not--The Book

'How's the book coming, Mom?'

And yet...

'It's almost done.  Now, Stephanie, can you explain to me why I'm paying to have the entire bridal party participate in a fire walking ceremony?'

It was amazing how long money could last

Anya was essentially still living
Off her masterpiece money

Oh, there had been other books
And other book deals
And teaching engagements
And other such things

But the masterpiece money
Had been the big payday

Especially when she sold the film rights

It took them seventeen years to make the movie
And by that time, they had optioned it four times
And each time, a little more money went into Anya's pocket
Money she didn't feel she deserved
Since she hadn't done anything to the book
At that point, she simply owned it

'Don't be ridiculous,' her husband Trevor would say to her, 'You wrote it.'

But by the time she hit thirty
She didn't feel as if that was the case anymore

It felt as if someone else had written it
A braver, bolder person than herself

Between the masterpiece and the last twenty-three years
She'd written six novels
And a play that hadn't gone anywhere

Each of the six novels all featured the same words
Underneath the title

'By the author of The Last River'

She found herself becoming more critical of the book
The way she would criticize one of her student's pieces

What does the The Last River mean anyway?

She knew what it meant, obviously
She had written the book
It was a metaphor for life
As all things were
When you're twenty-three

But what would someone just looking at that title for the first time think?

They would think the author was a pretentious, young snot

And they wouldn't be far off

Anya kept asking why the words underneath the title couldn't be
'By the author of--'
Whatever the previous book had been
But she was met with resistance

'Write another classic, and then we'll talk,' they'd say

Well, they wouldn't say
They'd never have the gall to come out and say that
Instead they'd say--

'It's your best-known work.  Be proud of it!'

But it was essentially the same thing

When Anya asked her daughter if she'd ever read the book
Stephanie had said she had
And Anya was more than a little surprised

Her daughter was not an avid reader
And Anya found herself a bit terrified
At the thought that her daughter had now taken in
Her mother's success
Like a cup of coffee
Free to judge it at will

But she put on the expected smile
And said--

'Well, what did you think?'

She hoped that her tone was jovial enough
She wanted to imply that whatever her daughter thought was fine
Because after all, you weren't expected to love your mother's work
If anything, you might hate it because it was written by your mother

Still, she wanted Stephanie to like it
She wanted to know that at least some part of her was impressive
To somebody so close to her

'What do you mean what did I think,' Stephanie asked, 'It's your book.'
'Yes,' Anya said, 'But I mean, did you like it?'

Stephanie seemed puzzled by this question

'Mom,' she said, 'It's a masterpiece.'

Anya was pleased, but then displeased
It was as she had suspected
Her book was beyond reproach

There was no more liking it or not liking it
Debating it or arguing about it
It had reached the point of objectivity

It was good

It was a good book

And somehow that made it far less exciting
Than it had been when she first wrote it

'Well,' Anya said, 'That's nice.'

Every now and again
There would be a list
That would feature her book

Best Books of the Past Thirty Years
The Century, Best Books Written by Women
Best American Books

And she'd be asked to comment
On something she hadn't even glanced at
In fifteen years

She'd usually say the standard 'The Book changed my life and I'm very grateful'

But secretly she wanted to say--

'These lists are crack for nostalgia addicts.'

Because that is what she believed

Just once she wanted someone to ask her what she was working on now--NOW

Someone had even suggested that she write a sequel
To The Last River

'Considering that the word "last" is in the title,' she said, 'I don't see how that would be fair.'

Trevor had read the book
But fiction wasn't something he enjoyed

He liked documentaries on Imperialism
And trips to places where there was mass amounts of suffering
This is what she got for marrying a liberal journalist

What she appreciated about Trevor
Was that he had married her before the masterpiece
When they were both still in school
And all of their professors let them skip class on Monday
So they could have a long weekend for their honeymoon

Anya remembered overhearing some of the professors saying
That Trevor would be the breadwinner in the marriage
While she fiddled around with her writing
Like a good little housewife

Now there's a wing in the English department named after her
And some of those same professors
Walk by her name every day

The best revenge really isn't living well
It's letting everybody know how well you're living

Lunch with Stephanie is over
Decisions have been made
More money will be spent
The wedding is four months away
And The Book will be finished sometime after that

Anya has decided to put it on hold
Until after all the craziness is over

...Or maybe she'll just scrap the whole thing

Maybe she'll quit writing
And disappear, like Salinger

Or start writing short stories
Take a new direction
Dust off that old play
And see if she can make a life for herself in the theater

She does this every time The Book is about to close
She questions why she isn't excited about it
Like she was about the first book

But the first book was The First Book she tells herself

Is that why no other book has felt that way?

She arrived home to find Trevor sleeping on the couch
While a nine-hour miniseries on Africa
Played on the television in front of him

He'd be going there the week before the wedding
To do a piece on political tensions
In one of the countries

She and Stephanie had joked
That he was probably secretly hoping to be taken hostage
So he could skip the entire ceremony

Anya went into her office
Closed the door
Opened her laptop
And looked at the first page of The Book

The cursor clicked at her
As if it were scolding her

'You don't like this, do you?' it seemed to be asking

She opened a new document
And stared at the white space

Then she typed--

'I wrote my first book when I was twenty-three and nobody ever let me forget it.'

It wasn't the best first sentence
She'd ever written

In a way, it didn't sound like her at all

Maybe that's what got her
To keep writing