Pearl Buck - The Eternal Wonder

The older man studied his face carefully. “Rann, suppose I give it to you straight. You are a very young man, too young, in fact, to have written as good a book as you have. Nevertheless, you did it. We took a big chance on you when we published your book and now we have to make it pay off. Nothing personal, understand. I like you fine. I had thought of building you up as boy genius, intellectual and all of that, but that takes time. Your book will establish your brain—if people read it. That’s where we come in. If people want to read the kind of drivel that was in the papers about you last night and will buy your book as a result of it, then it’s up to us to give ’em lots to read in the papers. It’s as simple as that. You are a property first and a person second so far as I’m concerned. Your sales have risen steadily and you are now number five on the list. Let’s grab the number-one spot and see how long we can hold it. We have to sell you to the smart set in New York. They set the trend, and the smart sets of Wichita and El Paso and hundreds of other places will follow. It’s a matter of promotion.”

As the luncheon progressed, Rann found himself reluctantly agreeing with what the publisher had to say. The press conference had been set for five o’clock and Margie arranged a barber’s appointment for him beforehand. They were joined for the dessert course by three people from the public relations department. When George Pearce explained his plan, the senior of the three spoke.

“Well, George, at least this one is going to be a lot easier than the last one you gave us. That was a dog if I ever saw one. When are you seeing Rita Benson again?” The question was directed to Rann.

“As a matter of fact, I’m having dinner with Mrs. Benson—”

The public relations man interrupted him. “Call her Rita, especially to the press. She will love it and the press will eat it up. Where do you go afterward?”

“We had planned the theatre.”

“Good, then where?”

“Well, home I guess. I hadn’t planned anything.”

“That’s good. You don’t plan. We plan. Go to Sardi’s. We will have a columnist there. That should keep us going for a couple of days. Now, there is a movie premier, an important one, on Thursday night. I’ve got some extra celebrity tickets. Do you think Rita will go with you?”

“I don’t know, I’ll ask her.”

“Well, if she won’t, we will get someone else important. Now…”

The conversation continued for an hour and Rann found his evening time taken up with social events at least every other evening for the rest of the month.

“Gentlemen, I hate to break this up, but we have an appointment with a barber.” It was Margie who spoke. “We will see you at five.”

George Pearce rose. “I’ll go along with you,” he said. “And we will all meet back here at five.”

They arrived back at the Pierre at ten minutes before five. Rann’s hair was trimmed into one of the new styles and a new black suit of a stylish cut had replaced his more conservative one. George Pearce had used his influence with a fashionable haberdasher to get the suit altered for him, as well as a dinner jacket for him to wear that evening. He had even had time for a short visit to the tailor for his measurements to be taken and George Pearce assured Rann he should leave everything else to the tailor, and Rann had agreed to do so.

Now that his first press conference was so near taking place, Rann expressed some shyness. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” he repeated.

George Pearce seemed prepared for anything. “Margie, you take Rann in for a drink and settle him down. Wait about thirty minutes, then come on up. I’ll go on and be sure everything is ready.”

“You must trust him, Rann,” Margie said to him when they were settled into a comfortable booth in the rear of the cocktail lounge. “You are very lucky, George Pearce is the best in the business. No one in the world knows publishing as well as he does, and with the start you’ve already got, you are off and running. What are you working on now?”

“I really hadn’t thought about it yet, and from the looks of the schedule I’ve been handed I won’t have much chance to think about it for a while.”

“They will ask you upstairs, and it shows lack of promise for an author not to be writing, so just say you are not ready to comment on it yet. That should hold them for a while—till you can get something started.”

Rann began to relax with Margie. “I really have no idea what I will write or even if I will write anything publishable again. There is a compulsion to put things down on paper, but not necessarily a compulsion to write things to publish. Do you know what I mean?”

“Certainly, I know exactly what you mean.” Margie was matter-of-fact as she went on. “The best thing to do is not to worry about it. You will write again and there is no way to prevent it if you wanted to. You are a writer. From my experience in this business, I would say that writers fall into two categories. The first is one who studies his crafts of expression and description, knows his word tools perfectly, studies what comprises a novel or a story, devises a plot from beginning to end, and then sits down and applies his knowledge and does his work. He is frequently very good. This kind of writer can be trained. The other type is one who is haunted by an idea or a situation in existence and who cannot rid himself of it until he puts it down on paper. He may only write down the situation and present no solution, for there may not be one in existence. He may not know grammar or punctuation or even spelling, but that doesn’t matter. Someone can be hired to punctuate and spell or correct these, but no one can be hired or trained to do what he does. He writes only out of existence, and his stories are made up of the situations of which life is made, the constant sights and sounds and smells and emotions of which every day is made. His work is alive, it breathes. This man must write. He cannot help it. He is a writer. The first one can write news or advertisements or manuals or not write at all, if he chooses. Not true for our second man. He writes only out of himself. He cannot have a writing task assigned to him, or even assign one to himself, and sit down and perform it as a duty. You are this second type. They are not always genius, but here is where genius comes along. You may not be a genius. It is too soon to know. You are a writer, however, it’s not too soon to know that, and you are a darned good one too!” She glanced at her watch. “Oops! Drink up. God will be angry if we are late.”

Rann left his drink unfinished and followed her to the elevator. He could not control a chuckle when he recalled her reference to George Pearce as “God.” He felt he was entering into yet another new world with an entirely different kind of people than he had ever known. It was exciting to him and he felt the excitement throughout his being. They were alone in the elevator.

“Incidentally,” he said, “thank you for what you had to say. It was not only a compliment but quite a vote of confidence.”

“Don’t even think about that angle.” She gave him a broad smile. “I tell only the truth in my life. Not that I’m moralistic, either, but it’s simpler if you only tell the truth. That way you don’t always have to keep up with yourself. I told the truth. Know it, and now let’s let the press know it. George Pearce is talking to them now about what a great guy you are and how smart you are and all that, which is why he wanted you to be a few minutes late. He has also given them a biographical sketch we drew up for this purpose. Just relax and be yourself. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Rann looked at her while she spoke. An attractive woman, thirty to thirty-five, difficult to judge, smart, pearl-gray business suit, matching shoes, an interesting oval face with lines of mirth at the corners of her eyes, her dark hair gathered on the back of her head neatly into a bun, the ever-present notebook and pencil in her hand.