{John Steinbeck - 1931}
Pacific Grove
December 1930
Dear Roland -
What a stupendous thing McCord has done for me. In his presence I reflected how might the struggling author 100 years from now compare to my starving state.
And as Christmas present, he has arranged for us to send letters back and forth.
How wonderful is that? I do not mind that I must not inquire what my fate will be. Judging from my plentiful rejections, I doubt you even know my name.
I thank you for your own Christmas present in response to my question of what might a bestselling book be like in your time.
I read only a page or so of The Da Vinci Code. The pages I read seemed to be a hodgepodge of quotations and confusing logic.
Brown's words are virtual blunt instruments of prose. My brain feels positively bruised.
And the less said of Miss Meyer's work the better. Both have been made into films in your time you say? Times must be harsh, indeed, in Hollywood.
Christmas broke Carol and me, so that we must live nine days on two dollars and five cents.
I think we can do it although the last few of those nine may find us living on rice. That doesn’t matter either. It’s rather amusing. At least I try to tell myself that.
I have been filled with a curious cloying despair. I haven’t heard a word from any of my manuscripts for over three months.
It is nerve wracking. I would welcome rejections far more than this appalling silence. My new novel slumbers. I doubt myself. This is a dreadful, crucial time.
Tell me how your work proceeds. No particulars on what you are writing as McCord forbids that, just how you find it within yourself to continue when all you receive are rejections.
John
What would you tell John Steinbeck were you me?
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