TK

If you were fortunate enough to know Liz Maguire, you knew her exuberance, her playfulness and most of all, her passion. Not laid back, not a quitter. Liz edited and published books for 25 years, acquiring a list of devoted authors who loved her dearly. You might also know that she published a first novel in 2002, Thinner, Blonder, Whiter, and that the main character bore a striking resemblance to... Liz.

When I became Liz's agent, she confided there was another book she dreamed of writing. It's not that she wasn't proud of her firstborn, but she wanted to create a literary work. She said “literary” sotto voce. Liz wasn't shy, but she seemed nervous about this desire, maybe even unworthy.

Over time she told me about the novel and its protagonist, Constance Fenimore Woolson, a popular writer in her day and devoted friend to Henry James. Liz believed Constance had been in love with James. She worked on the project for a while, but when Colm Tóibín published a brilliant novel about James, The Master, Liz put aside her writing. The shadow she would be working under was too vast.

I'd ask about the novel during our periodic phone calls, and Liz would say she was too busy running Basic Books. We would commiserate on the difficulties of working in publishing and writing: not enough free time, the anxiety of running into editors who turned your book down at parties, the embarrassment of getting a bad PW review for all to see.

The last time I saw Liz, she filled me in on life at Basic and mentioned some aches and pains she was seeing doctors for. And then she told about the novel. She had started again. Tóibín didn't own Henry James after all. She planned to take summer weekends to finish.

Liz was diagnosed with ovarian cancer the next month and died a little over two months later. Some weeks after, I called her partner, Karen, to see if she would search Liz's computer. Perhaps she'd left some portion of the novel that we could make into a chapbook. Months later Karen called back: there was a manuscript.

With the opening lines, I knew Liz had found the voice, channeling her life into Constance's. She was an invention fueled by Liz's twin desires: to be alone at her desk writing and be in the world in a grand way. Within the pages, Liz had written notes to herself to fill in details: a quote from X, a missing date. As I read, I was entranced by the story and saddened by the little notes, the sprinkling of TKs.

When the pages whittled down, I panicked. The story was coming to a close, but I feared Liz hadn't reached the end. A few pages later, the word “Epilogue” appeared. Now I cried. Liz had reached the end of her book in a brilliant conclusion. The similarities between her life and Constance Woolson's are eerie, the way novelists can seem clairvoyant when their books foretell events that come true. Woolson, too, died an untimely death from a disease that ravaged her. Both women lived for writing and were aligned with powerful men with whom they competed mightily in the literary realm. A friend of Liz's at Harvard with whom she vied for literary acclaim published his book first. He sent her a copy of it with a note that read: “Quit yet?” Sorry, no.

Rosemary Ahern acquired Liz's book for Other Press in one of those rare and magical publishing moments. Rosemary loves James, had read the Tóibín, and was curious about Constance, who appears sparingly in The Master. She filled in every TK using Liz's research library and some additional research of her own. Her devotion to the integrity of The Open Door and careful shepherding of it was a gift.

Liz would have loved The Open Door's beautiful jacket. A close-up of a Victorian dress, lavender type, a woman's hand laced through the arms of man, cloth covered buttons, a thin walking stick in her other hand. She would have preened to hear of her large German sale. She would have meddled in publicity and made everyone at her book party feel like her most intimate friend. That was Liz.

There's a bench in Madison Square Park near the dog run, with a brass plaque that reads: Mad About the Girl. Liz Maguire (1958—2006). If you pass by, sit down for a moment. Give Liz a nod. Think about what's still TK.