Free Compliments of a Friend by Susan Isaacs

hour. But they were all talking the talk I was aching to hear. We spoke in confidence. Not that we were sharing dark secrets, but it was comforting knowing whatever you said about your agent or some other writer would not pop up on Page Six of the New York Post. Being a novelist meant a professional life of isolation, sitting alone in a room telling yourself a story. This monthly dose of collegiality always invigorated me.
    The next person who spoke said, “[Our editor] called. The publisher wants another anthology from us. Something like Murder Among Friends.”
    “Anthology?” I asked.
    “Yeah. Every few years, we put together an anthology of short stories, all with a similar theme.” I must have looked either dubious or stricken, because he or she added, “It doesn’t have to be a long short story.”
    “It’s always fun,” someone else added. “You know, the variety: seeing what everybody writes, plus we make a couple of bucks.”
    I confessed: “I’ve never written a short story.”
    Okay, there weren’t exactly gasps, but nearly all the other members looked a bit surprised. Not only do many novelists start with a short story form, but among mystery and thriller and horror writers, getting into the genre magazines, the pulps, was step one on the career path.
    I, on the other hand, had been an editor at Seventeen magazine and also a freelance political speechwriter. After that, aside from the occasional article, I’d been a stay-at-home mom, reading so many whodunits during my kids’ naptime or preschool that I may have become somewhat unhinged. But at some point, I told myself: “I think I can do this.” The “this” was writing a novel. Not a novella, not a short story. Truthfully, I rarely read short fiction. I wanted a universe, not a galaxy, not a solar system.
    But I wanted to be a true part of the group, so I settled for maybe being able to come up with an asteroid. “Okay,” I said breezily, even though, that very second, my intestines were tightening into a figure-eight knot: “I’ll give it a shot.”
    The next day, the next week—who knows how long afterward (one of the joys of writer’s block, aside from the usual self-loathing and doomed attempts to search the Bible or Mother Goose Tales for some antique plot to crib, is that time alternates between slo-mo and fast-forward; fourth-dimension-wise, you never know where you are), I do know I was getting desperate, especially after a lighthearted call from one of the other group members asking if I had any idea when I’d be handing in the story. “Probably in a few days,” I said cheerily.
    “I was only asking because everyone else’s pieces are in. But no pressure. If you need a little longer, just let me know.”
    That’s when Judith Singer returned to my life to save me. My first novel, Compromising Positions, was narrated by Judith, a stay-at-home Long Island mom, who tracked down the killer of M. Bruce Fleckstein, the Don Juan of Long Island dentists. Not only did the book get published, it was also so successful (bestseller, tons of translations, critically lauded movie) that it equaled even my most grandiose fantasies.
    Now she was back in my head. In a genuinely kind voice, she said: Use me. You know me so well. You know my voice, my friends and family, my feelings. And admit it. Aren’t you dying to know what happened to me after Compromising Positions ended?
    Yes, I was! Two days later, I handed in “Compliments of a Friend,” the continuation of Judith’s story. True, I’ve altered it quite a bit for this edition. But the bottom line is Judith Singer is my coauthor on this one. I sent out an SOS and she rushed over to collaborate. And I loved being back in her company so much that my next novel, Long Time No See, was simply an extension of what you’ve just read, my first short story.
    I hope you enjoyed being with her as much as I did.
    And a personal message to Judith: Thank you and bless you.
    —Susan Isaacs

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