She said, “Why don’t you write a novel about a newspaper man? Don’t you think you could do that?”
There was an idea there. I sat up and thought about it. Ackie had enough background to fill three books, and I had had a few experiences. Mardi could see that I was looking at the idea favourably, and she began to get excited. “Oh, Nick, wouldn’t it be fun if you could. You wouldn’t have to leave me then, would you? I could get your meals and sit around darning your socks, and you could be working—”
I grinned at her. “Don’t sound much fun for you,” I said, but she scrambled to her feet.
“You stay and think about it, Nick,” she said. “I’ll go back to the house and get the breakfast on. I’ll call you.”
Well, I thought about it, and the more I thought the more I liked the idea. Before she called me, I was itching to make a start. I went back to the house, bolted my breakfast and got down to it. It took me all the morning to work out the general idea of the book, and when I was through it seemed pretty good to me.
I took it along to Mardi, who was in the kitchen, and explained the synopsis to her. She leant against the kitchen table, her eyes wide and bright with excitement, and was as enthusiastic about it as I was.
“Okay, honey,” I said, when I had finished. “The next move is to get a typewriter, and I’ll make a start.”
It took me two months to get the book done, and if it hadn’t been for Mardi it would never have been written. I got stuck half-way through and lost patience with it, but Mardi kept at me until I just had to go on. She was so excited that I hadn’t the heart to fold up. When it was finished, and I read it through, I knew I had something. It wasn’t going to be a best seller or anything like that, but it was good enough.
Mardi said, “This is only the beginning; you’re going to write more and more and you will very soon be famous.”
I grinned at her. “Don’t pin too much on this. Maybe it’ll come back with the usual rejection slip.”