He was fiercely private and deeply caring. He and my grandmother were late to the PEN/Faulkner award ceremony in 1992, where he was being honored for his novel Billy Bathgate, because my grandparents were giving my single mother a night off, and on the way to the event, I was stung by a bee. Not one birthday party or school play or holiday. They’d eat the dinner she prepared, he’d watch a little television, and then he’d go back into his office until he was ready for bed.ĭespite this schedule, which was obviously made possible by his wife, he never missed a family event. After reading the paper, he retreated into his office to work until lunch, and afterward he’d work again until 6, when he’d emerge and pour a vodka soda. He woke every morning and ate the breakfast my grandmother laid out for him, which included fat-free cottage cheese and low-cholesterol mini muffins. He approached his writing with maniacal dedication, but there was nothing else maniacal about him. His eyes would squeeze shut and his head would tip back and after he chuckled, he would look at you with delight. He didn’t smile unless he was really pleased, and his biggest laugh was a small chuckle. He often let other people talk, entering a conversation with a single considered sentence. “He’s very nice,” I told her.Ī truer answer would have been that he was fiercely private and deeply caring. I got that question frequently from the adults in my life. “What’s he like?” my second-grade teacher asked. I’d have to put in some hours on a rewrite, not to mention redraw all the pictures, but my grandfather’s attention was worth it. Perhaps most seven-year-olds wouldn’t have wanted a grandparent to instruct them how to tell a better story, but I was thrilled that he’d taken me seriously. If you put him in the early pages and show him hanging around the barn, the reveal will be more effective.” “You introduce the thief who stole the horse at the end. Then he dispensed some editorial feedback. He peered at me through his glasses with slightly more interest than usual. “This is pretty good,” he said, sounding surprised. He read the story while I sat on the carpet next to his chair. By this time, Papa had written six acclaimed and bestselling novels, among them Ragtime, The Book of Daniel, and World’s Fair, as well as two story collections and a play, and had won the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award twice. I presented a copy of “Gold Dust”-illustrated in colored pencil, its pages tied together with string-to my grandfather, E.L. It was up to a young girl named Alison to find him and set him free. I’d written a short story about a flying pony named Gold Dust, who was stolen from his pasture and locked in a trailer where even his wings couldn’t save him. The first time an award-winning novelist gave me feedback on my writing, I was seven.
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