New Beans on the Block

Does this make sense? If your dog gets surgery to correct a genetically caused, common-to-the-breed detached retina or hip dysphasia, you can’t enter him in a dog show. But you can enter him with these conditions unrepaired. Scars from hunting are OK. A leg missing from confronting a bear. Face missing from confronting a coon.

Our world is full of this kind of “thinking.” Like if you drive too fast, on a curve you crash. This is called “an accident.” And it’s possible that the curve will be removed. The curve!! That thing that just lay there while you pushed your little foot to the gas pedal and defied nature and the gods. You get a discount on your liability insurance if you are a “good student,” have air bags or seat belts that talk. There’s no discount for driving the speed limit.

Meanwhile, you write a book called something like “The Beans of Egypt, Maine.” You are very young, eager, hungry. A publisher says, “Here’s some money. We’ll publish that book.” You say, “Ohmagawd thankyouthankyou!” The presses roll. Out pops a quarter million copies of your little book. Next day . . . uh oh. You realize there are flaws. Nothing an editor could fix for you. It has to do with your own sensibilities about underwriting, overwriting and poetry.

A few weeks later, reviewers call your characters “white trash” and have somehow misconstrued the innocent nap a father takes with his kid as “incest.” Nice, cute little ladies come to you at book signings saying, “We enjoyed your book. We’ve had neighbors just like that. “ Their lips curl. Some people are convinced that this book is autobiographical. Since they perceive the main character to be an incest victim, they pat you on the head and say, “You were really brave to write this book.”

You open the book, look into it bewildered. Between the awkward youthful writing and the stuff that everybody misunderstands, you feel that a whole class of people, the working class, who are your own people, are getting bad press because somehow you weren’t clear enough. You work up a new manuscript, cutting, adding, sighing.

Whenever you have suggested to the publishing world a second chance, a chance to have your finished version published, they look at you with disdainful pity, like the dog show people would if you showed up with your Dalmatian sporting his “new” eyes. They say, “Once a book is out, it’s out .” And “Fresh is best.” And “Once the reviewers speak, they SPEAK. You are not allowed to speak. You are de facto dead.”

WHY????!!!!

“Because we live in a world of funny habits,” you answer yourself.

Ten years pass. Thousands of long nights and days.

Then a light shines into your tiny black world of regret and frustration. It’s your agent, editor and various other kindly faces. They say, “We’ve given it some thought. We’ll publish the new Beans and we’ll give you a few pages at the end to speechify, which we know you tend to like to do.”

You shower them with state-of-shock thank-yous.

And now it’s the big day. Your Dalmatian’s patched-up, farseeing eyes twinkle. Though his legs are a little shaky with the weight of the moment, he steps out into the ring.

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Harcourt Brace publishes the new version of “The Beans of Egypt, Maine” this month in paperback.