Free Home Safe by Elizabeth Berg

the latest one, which she brought along as a kind of talisman. “But anyway, I usually read from them as a way to … Well, as a way to show my art, I guess. Though that sounds pretentious to me, as I say it: show my art . It sounds like … Well, but what I do is, I read and then I take questions. I don't usually just … talk . About myself, I mean. I must confess, in fact, that I feel very nervous talking only about myself. I think most writers are shy people who hide behind others, who want to talk not about themselves but about other people. Of course, they are actually talking about themselves when they talk about other people …”
    And now there is nothing. White space inside of her. White noise around her. There is nothing she can think of to say.
    “I wonder if … I think I am just going to go ahead and read a little, just a couple pages of my latest novel, to show you something about how writers work. Well, how I work, anyway.” Helen opens her book to the prologue, then looks up to say, “There is a tarot card called the King of Wands, and it represents a man who appears to be terrifying, really fierce; but on the inside, he's a real softie. This novel is about a man like that.” She reads the opening pages of The King of Wands , about ten minutes' worth of material. Then she closes the book, and smiles. “So, I think that might show you how a character's voice can take the lead in crafting a story. Just a sample, there, of how that works.”
    It is so quiet. Helen clears her throat. “How about if we move to questions? Are there any questions?” Last time Helen did an event, they had to cut questions off after half an hour. She prays for that now.
    No one raises a hand. What feels like a year passes while Helen stares at a spot on the back wall. When someone does finally raise her hand, Helen practically yelps, saying, “Yes?”
    “Where do you get your ideas?” the woman asks.
    I don't, lately, Helen wants to say. I don't have any ideas. Do you? What she does say is, “Well, they're all around. You know. Life. Ideas are all around; the real question is, Where aren't ideas? I mean, there's a story you can imagine about two random people in an elevator, isn't there? One person in an elevator. An elevator! And then the rest is … Well, it's alchemy. That's what you hope for. And rarely achieve. It's hard to achieve what you mean to, to get to where you think you're going to go, when you first start a book. And in some ways, the more success you have, the harder it gets. You begin writing in fresh air and sunshine; with each book, you suffer more pollution. Sales figures, reviews … your own … your own …” She clears her throat, looks around the room at the audience. She sees a kind of polite bewilderment.
    Another woman, seated in the back, raises her hand, and Helen nods gratefully at her.
    “This isn't a question,” the woman says, “it's just a comment. I just wanted to tell you that I loved Telling Songs and I gave it to all my friends for Christmas last year. It's a beautiful book. And also I wanted to let you know I have to leave early; I didn't want you to think I was leaving in the middle of your talk. So thank you.”
    “Thank you!” Helen says, and watches as the woman gathers up her purse, her coat, the program with Helen's bio. She wants to beg her to stay, to come and stand on the stage with her.
    Another woman raises her hand. “Could you tell us something personal about yourself? Something that nobody else knows?”
    Helen has no idea how to respond. “You first,” she says, finally, and laughs, though no one else does. They all wait. Finally, she says, “Well … why would I do that?” Now she has completely alienated them, she can feel it. She speaks quickly, saying, “Okay, here: I have a very clean house, but my refrigerator shelves are awful. Plus I have a little crush on Donald Trump, I don't know why.”
    Oh, God, not a sound. They are taking her too seriously,