Road to Paradise (55 page)
After I had written the first act of this story—my Shelby getting ready to go cross country—I said to my husband that I didn’t think I could write the rest effectively unless I went cross country also. He was unconvinced. Me traveling by myself across the width and breadth of the entire continental United States did not appeal to him as the family’s self-appointed Director of Security. He wondered why I couldn’t write about a paper towel factory in New Jersey, safe and close to home. Or just make the whole thing up. “You always do.”
Spending two weeks by myself in a car through the wilds of Wyoming didn’t seem practical for a mother of four, like trying to be young again. He brought up another book I had once thought of writing, part of which was set in Barrow, Alaska, and wanted to know if I would’ve needed to go to Barrow to write it. Yes, I said, and perhaps this is why, after fourteen years of being a published author, I have no book about Barrow, Alaska. I’ve lived in Topeka, I’ve visited Dartmouth College, I was pregnant in Texas, and returned to the Russia of my birth; I’ve lived in New York City and been to Hawaii.
Now I had to see the Badlands. I had to see the Great Divide. I had to see Mendocino. This was also a journey I had to take, and I had to do it alone. If hubby were in the car with me, we’d be talking about the kids, arguing about directions, feeling hungry, listening to Counting Crows instead of the Bee Gees; it would be a different book, not this book: three girls on a quest for life and meaning.
I tried to rent an SUV. When I got to Baltimore, Avis didn’t have my car; they were out of cars; would I mind waiting? I waited an hour. They offered me a Jeep, and a Chrysler sedan, but the Jeep was too open in the back and the sedan could’ve belonged to my grandparents. Suddenly the Avis man said, “I don’t know if it will work for you, but a Mustang just came in. Wanna take a look?”
The rest is history. The Mustang was yellow, and it barely fit my stuff, but I was in the most audacious, fantastic, conspicuous car on the road, and renting it changed my travels and my fiction.
The other thing that changed my story was a conversation with my mother-in-law, Elaine, who said, “What are you going to write about driving on the Interstate? There’s nothing to see.” And she was right. I got off the Interstate. To her I owe the digressive paths that expanded my trip to 4000 miles and made this book what it is. To her I owe a lot.
Also to Susan Opie, my new lovely editor, who shared with me a magical afternoon on a balcony overlooking the seven hills of Rome, complete with champagne and strawberries, which, come to think of it, probably would’ve made the New Jersey Turnpike look attractive. She has proven to be a wonderful, smart, patient, indulgent editor. I’m lucky to have her.
To Linda Joyce, who, with her sharp eye and every deletion, comma, a well-placed expletive, made the book better.
To Amanda Ridout, because every time we drink a-merry and aplenty at the Algonquin, a new project-idea-cover-title-contract springs forth. Clearly the Algonquin has remarkable drinks.
To Robert Gottlieb, for making the last seven years of my life possible, and to Claire Roberts, my new foreign rights director, for grown-up books and cookbooks and children’s books (special thanks to Lara Allen for that one) and the Trek Madone—I’m biking all the way to your house in Jersey to thank you for that one!
To my high school friend Kathie. Like that Baz Luhrmann song that advised me to keep my old friends, sometimes I wish I had.
To the hubby who looked after the mass of children while I was away and to Pavla Salacova O’Rourke (I can’t keep track of her last names, so fast and furious did she marry) who helped him and helps me every day, no grace and gratitude are enough.
Paullina Simons was born in Leningrad and emigrated to the United States in 1973. She lives close to New York with her husband and four children. Go to her website, paullinasimons.com, for more information about her novels.
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This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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This paperback edition 2008
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins
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2007
Copyright © Timshel Books 2007
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ePub edition September 2008 ISBN-9780007283439
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