The Children's Classic That Should Be--Witch's Silver, by Dorothy Butters (Gilman)

One of the joys of having kids is having an excuse to reread classic children's books. (Not that I need an excuse. Frankly, I love children's books.) I just revisited The Witch of Blackbird Pond, by Elizabeth George Speare, and it made me remember a book I love even more, Witch's Silver, by Dorothy Butters. They're near contemporaries--Speare's book was published in 1958, Butters' in 1959. Both have high-spirited heroines arriving on ships as the novels begin, but I'll take Butters' Arbella over Speare's Kit any day. At least, I know whom I'd rather have with me if I were ever lost in the wilderness. Here's what I remember: 

It is 1703 when our young heroine arrives in Boston to stay with Puritan relatives. Beyond the usual marriageable age, unusually tall and unusually tanned, Arbella spends her days with her eyes downcast while she makes her plans--to travel to the remote outpost where her family was murdered by Algonquin Indians, who took her captive and adopted her. 

Algonquin Village in what is now North Carolina, c. late 1600's.

Arbella knows that no man will ever want her, remaining unaware of the attentions of one fine-upstanding Boston merchant and the frank admiration of his brother, an uncaring sailor with his own ship. But Arbella doesn't dream of husband and marriage. Her goal? To dig up her dead family's chest of silver, hurriedly buried before the Indians attacked. 

These Boston Puritans, thinks Arbella, speak loudly of God, but really value money. With her family's reclaimed hoard, she will be beholden to no one. Her white foster mother among the Algonquin, also missing life with the tribe, is now a ward of the Puritans. With funds, Arbella can buy her foster mother's freedom. Together, they will build a home and a life. 

Puritan children, raised as tiny adults, lives filled with prayer and fear of damnation

But William, Arbella's weak-lunged, terror-filled, religion-tormented young cousin follows her on her quest, fearing she is a witch bent on ill-deeds. To return him to his family is to give up Arbella's one chance at wealth and power. To bring him along, terrified and weak as he is, seems her only option. 

Gradually, she begins to pry away the religious terrors that imprison him, giving him strength and confidence through a purported magic red stone. 

This is Ann Hutchison on trial,
but it might as well be Arbella. 

But war is about to break out again between the Puritans and the Native Americans. Arbella and her young cousin wind up caught in the middle. When her path again crosses with the two attractive Boston suitors, as well as with her one-time Algonquin brother, Arbella must choose--between the safety of one suitor and the adventure of the other, and most wrenchingly of all, between her silver--her freedom--and her cousin's life. 

There's a lame book-end front and back, about a wimpy poor 1950's girl who hates her silly first name (Arbella) and thinks she's not good enough for the wealthy boy who loves her, but any silliness there is overwhelmed by the 1700's Arbella's story. The lessons here are about self-reliance and interdependence, in a lovely mix. 

It's delicious, also, to remember that this novel was written by one Dorothy Butters, a shy, bookish young woman, married to someone who nearly engulfed her--

--until she divorced him and became best-selling author Dorothy Gilman, writing, among other things, the Mrs. Pollifax series, about a sixty-year-old widow ready to end her life until she offers up her services to the CIA and becomes the world's oldest, and most competent, and crazily-hatted spy.

Original book copy for Witch's Silver: 

"It was in puritanical Boston town of 1703 that Arbella Hewitt, once tribal sister to an Indian, set heads to wagging and tongues to clucking when with singlehearted zeal she set out into the north woods with a frail little boy cousin as her only companion and a worn red stone as a make-believe talisman. She was seeking, not confidence, for she had plenty of that, but a buried chest of heirloom silver that could give her freedom from her patronizing relatives."

Editor Wistfulness: If Leona Nevler Hadn't Died. . .

I stumbled across the name Leona Nevler today. I'm reading Kristin Hannah's The Nightingale. In her acknowledgements, she thanks Leona for doing a wonderful job.

Leona Nevler, at the time of her death, was a senior editor at Berkley Books, then part of the Penguin Group. She'd been an editor since, well, just before Harper Lee turned in the manuscript for Go Set A Watchman to a small literary house called Lippincott.

Lippincott was Nevlor's first publishing job. She was a reader there when she dove into a juicy manuscript called The Tree and the Blossom, by a New England housewife, a twenty-nine-year-old woman named Grace Metalious. In this, her first novel, Metalious opened the walls of a serene New England town to reveal the dark, steamy sexuality hidden behind the white clapboard.

Lippencott turned down the book, but Nevlor showed the manuscript to the recent widow of publisher Julian Messner. Nevler was bucking for a job under Kathryn Messner, even though the only job available was in marketing, not editing.

Still, Kitty Messner wanted the book, but only if Leona would edit it. Bam, Nevler had her foot in the door. Soon, the book had a new name--Peyton Place.



Metalious was only the first of many first novelists Nevler mothered to success. She worked with: John Updike, Margaret Atwood, Jane Smiley, P.D. James, Dick Francis, James A Michener, Jeffrey Archer, Amy Tan and Fannie Flagg. She was Dorothy Gilman's editor for the Mrs. Pollifax mysteries, and discovered Lorna Landvik. And she almost discovered me.

In 2006, I handed my first novel over to a fine agent, who began submitting it all over. We soon collected a stream of warm rejection letters: "I wanted it, but could not get collegial support." "I wanted it but could not get my exec editor to approve." "Alas, we have decided to pass on THE ONE AND HOLY SKILLET. I'm disappointed as I found it entertaining, smart, and well written . . . {But the Publisher says no.} I'm sure you will find just the right home for this refreshing book - the author handles the large cast of characters with finesse and nicely balances the more serious issues with humor and irony.” 

Leona Nevler, however, wanted it. She needed some minor changes; she was certain we could zip through them. She just had to find her notes. They were here somewhere. . .

On December 6th,  2006, she dropped in the street--a pulmonary embolism-- and a few days later, died in the hospital during surgery. My agent contacted me. I was terribly disappointed, but, well, Nevler was dead. Her family were grieving her loss. I was just grieving the loss of a published novel. 

After a few more regretful nos, and one non-reply, my agent turned the book back to me. I had swollen feet, pregnancy fatigue, a turbo-toddler. I knew I should submit to small presses, but I had only so much energy. I chose to focus what I had on my passionate vision for a novel about race, class and bigotry via one hundred years in a house in L.A., a vision that is almost finished: The Color of Safety.

Some of the publishing houses that turned me down have since gone bankrupt. Several have been folded yet again into others as the world of publishers accordion-fans to fit ever slimmer space. Last year, I found the editor who wrote one lovely regretful note. She had just completed a low-residency masters in poetry. The editor of the note quoted above is currently writing copy for the medical education department of a large university. Friends have self-published their cozy mysteries, their erotic romances, but my work, while (hopefully) accessible, is still too far into the world of literary writing to make self-publishing an intelligent option. This means I'm still, in a way, a hitchhiker in the book world, although that metaphor doesn't really work, since I'm the one who has, in a sense, built the car. A better metaphor would be that the publishing world still owns the roadway system, and I can't drive on it unless they let me in.

It's silly to wonder, and I refuse to live my life facing backwards, but there it was, today, in the acknowledgements of Hannah's book. What if, like Sally Koslow, with her novel "Little Pink Slips," Leola Nevlor had lived long enough to acquire and edit my first novel? Where would I be?