The Point of Vanishing

birds rose again, to hover and swoop and plunge.” Beat down the air for the motion of a hovering gull is more than an adequate phrase. It is the inevitable word upon which so many words have been spent.’
“I couldn’t be more pleased, Barbara,” he said. “You took my editing to heart and molded your creation into a superb story.”
Her mother rushed in. “You have a gift for description as good as any accomplished writer, Bar. You’ve learned your lessons well.”
Barbara noticed her mother glaring at her father. Uh-oh, Mother was jealous again. Barbara looked at her mother. “Will you read the ending, Mother?”
“Of course.” Her mother reached across the table and took up the newspaper. “‘There can be few who have not at one time or another coveted the secret, innocent, and wild at the same time, of a child’s heart. And here is little Miss Barbara Follett, holding the long-defended gate wide open and letting us enter and roam at our will over the enchanted ground.’”
Holding his head high, her father said, “Author Barbara Newhall Follett has arrived.”
“And the credit is all hers,” said her mother.
Her father turned to her and raised a finger. “But you mustn’t linger over any one success, my dear. You must look ahead, consider what you’ll do next.”
“I know, Daddy. My pirate poem is up to 27 stanzas. And I’m drawing a map to go with it.”
Her mother said, “You needn’t worry about what to do next, Bar. You’ve plenty of time for more stories.”
“Well, now,” her grandma said, “I happen to enjoy your Princess Verbiny stories. I hope you’ll write more of those.”
Barbara looked from her mother to her father. “For my pirate poem, I really must sail on a square-rigger—to get it just right. May I?”
Daddy said, “That’s up to your mother.”
“I don’t know, Barbara.” Her mother rubbed the back of her neck. “Let me think about it.”
✭
On a Saturday morning, three weeks later, Barbara’s father summoned her to his study. She seated herself in his oversized upholstered chair, crossed one leg over the other, and ticked a foot.
He planted his forearms on the desk and braced himself over them. “Mr. Knopf has sent me a comment and review of your book by Anne Carroll Moore in the New York Herald Tribune.”
“Why didn’t he send it to me?”
“I imagine he wanted me to decide whether to show it to you.”
Barbara sat upright, her hands folded on her lap. “Why would you not show it to me?”
“Because it’s not 100 percent positive.”
“That’s no reason to keep it from me.”
“Yes, that’s how I see it, which is why I’m giving it to you.” He swept the newspaper page off his desk and handed it to her.
Barbara perched forward in the chair and read. “Well, it says here, ‘I have only words of praise for the story itself. The House Without Windows is exquisite.’”
Her father thumped a palm on his desk. “I challenge anyone to say otherwise.”
Barbara’s eyes darted over the columns, reading as fast as she could. “Oh, I see now.”
“Which part?”
“Where she says, ‘I can think of no greater handicap for the writer between the ages of nineteen and thirty-nine than to have published a successful book between the ages of nine and twelve.’
“How ridiculous.” Barbara looked to her father with steely eyes. “How can she predict my future?”
He grinned. “This purported expert obviously has no acquaintance with one Barbara Follett.”
Barbara bent over the sheet and read on. Rattling the paper, she said, “She thinks I ought to be out playing with other children and enjoying playgrounds and backyards. Instead of growing up burdened by early fame.”
“And what do you make of that?”
“It’s foolishness. My book is full of joy. I made my own happiness, right there on the page.”
“You know, you don’t have to write if you don’t want to. There are other things you can do.”
“You and Mother have always given me the freedom to do just as I wish, and that’s why I could type away for hours and write my book.”
“You don’t miss playing with other children?”
“I can play with other children whenever I choose. But they’re not nearly as good company as my other friends, like Mr. St. John at Lake Sunapee.”
“Yes, but he’s an adult.”
“Children can be silly. I can tell Mr. St. John about my nature discoveries and my writing and painting.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Yes, well, I wanted to be sure. But I see you’re quite certain yourself.”
“And, what’s more, I’m going to write to Mrs. Moore and tell her just what I think of her ridiculous notions.”
✭
Her father advised her not to just criticize in her letter. He said that the best editors always find something to praise, which helps the criticism wash down more easily. She thought that was excellent advice.
March 31, 1927
Dear Mrs. Moore,
First, I appreciate your flattering review of The House Without Windows, which, as you must know, concurs with all the other wildly complimentary reviews. And I don’t mind telling you I’ve received scores of letters from admiring readers who have thanked me for writing about Eepersip’s frolicking adventures and close escapes.
But I’m nothing less than startled at the claims you make in “When Children Become Authors.” You have judged my circumstances with no knowledge whatsoever of my parents or me. It’s insulting of you to imply my parents have tyrannized me. They have taught me, they have treated me like an equal, and they have brought cultured people into our home for conversation. It has all been highly educational and endlessly stimulating. They never pressured me to publish or even write a novel. I created the story of Eepersip and, entirely on my own, wrote it twice (because a fire destroyed the first draft). There’s no reason in the world I shouldn’t continue to produce novels for years to come. How you can predict my future is beyond me. I think you should refrain from spouting far-fetched conjecture and write what you’re supposed to write,