Free Scribblers by Stephen Kirk Page A

responsible for supper. He had no kitchen skills and was understandably tired from his labor in a machine shop. Our definitive meals from those years were two: a large tinfoil pan of frozen Salisbury steak patties in brown gravy, which we ate twice a week, and a like-sized tinfoil pan of frozen, breaded veal cutlets in a red sauce, which we had weekly. We had no illusions about these entrées, knowing them collectively by the name of “frozen garbage.” Both were served over cottage cheese—large curd—for reasons that made sense then but are mystifying to me now. Wecustomarily had cling peaches on the side, always in heavy syrup, or canned fruit cocktail. Though a thriving garden grew in the backyard, vegetables were unaccountably absent from our table. When I went away to college, most students complained bitterly about the cafeteria fare, but it was to me a revelation. Canned ravioli, tamales in a jar, frozen pizza, little wienies in barbecue sauce, macaroni and cheese from a box, corned beef in a tin, hot dogs wrapped in bread, cheddar cheese soup or canned chicken à la king on toast—those were the foods that brought me to what maturity I attained and that I still crave today.
    All of this is to say that I am not uniquely qualified for every editorial assignment that comes my way. Before beginning work on Charles Price’s novel, I must finish editing the project on my desk, which happens to be a cookbook. This means a month of chervil and chipotle, of fretting over whether quantities of butter ought to be expressed in pounds, ounces, sticks, cups, or tablespoons, of wrestling long distance with an author I’ve never met over the fine points of Lemon Chicken Orzo Soup, Baked Brie, and Grilled Herb-Crusted Lamb Rack with Cilantro Pesto and Smoked Tomato Salsa.
    So it is with much of what I edit—boating guides, travel books, folklore collections, Civil War biographies. The main requirement of the job is not expertise in a certain subject, or a literary sensibility, or even a command of the language. Rather, it’s a tolerance for boredom.
    But Price’s novel is in line with my taste. Moreover, it doesn’t call for substantial reorganization or rewriting by the editor, a blessed relief. Its problems are few and easilyidentifiable. First, everyone on the staff has trouble remembering the title. And the sequence of the opening chapters needs to be rearranged. And there is one flat, transparently literary scene late in the story that exists only to provide Bellamy, the antihero, a platform for examining his thoughts. Otherwise, all the novel needs is tightening.
    Since I have such an easy project in hand, I enjoy a rare opportunity to do what I suppose is routine for top-drawer editors: I’ll get to know the author.
    I learn a few facts about Charles Price. He has just turned sixty. He is a former journalist, urban planner, and Washington lobbyist. What I don’t expect is his physical appearance, when he comes down from the mountains to take lunch with some of the staff. He wears a Western jacket with a three-inch fringe, tooled leather boots that come to a long point at the toe, and a big cowboy hat. Together, they make him appear bigger than he really is. He has a ponytail, a mustache, and a triangular thatch under his lower lip. Having resigned from his stuffed-shirt career, he apparently doesn’t intend going back. He draws looks from people as we walk to our restaurant table.
    Charles has tended toward the writing life since childhood, when he drew comic books and sold them to his classmates. Inspired mainly by his mother, who read historical fiction, he spent his adolescence imagining himself an average person living in various periods in the past. In college, he started cultivating the persona of a writer, though he had neither skills nor credentials. He read “all the writers I thought I was supposed to, then decided I was good enough to be in their