Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“Well, that’s… disgustingly sweet.”
Terry chuckles. “Isn’t it? So, you know, how much will you hate yourself in ten years if you don’t do everything in your power to win this girl now?” He points at the camera. “That’s what you need to decide.”
After Terry and I end the call I just sit there in the conference room of my hotel suite and stare at the reflection in the window of the Vegas lights outside. I should get up, go find Essie and Mike, and mingle.
But what’s the point?
Really, why do I even come?
No one wants to see me. No one cares that I’m even here.
But then I remember the panel I did this morning and a feeling of… I dunno—warmth, I guess—washes over me. It felt good to be the author in the room. It felt amazing, actually. I’ve been living the life of a writer for ten years now. Missing out on all the important moments.
The similarities to Shawn and Dawn’s situation isn’t missed. I mean, it’s different. But the same, too.
I’ve wasted ten years of my life living a lie. And why?
I don’t actually have a reason. In the beginning, it made sense because it was a temporary thing. Just a little side project. And yeah, I’m a dude writing erotic romance. So fine. I was a little embarrassed. Like romance is beneath me.
I’m sure I felt that way. At one time.
But I cannot actually remember feeling that way recently. I’m not embarrassed. I am a good writer. I like my stories. Maybe naming that girl Sugar was over the top, but she was over the top too. It fit her. Perfectly.
Readers made fun of it at first. A few weeks, maybe. But then everyone loved Sugar. She was an awesome character. And even though Choke makes me cringe, he’s a Master with a heart of gold.
It’s still my bestselling series. All these years later, they still ask for more Choke and Sugar.
I don’t know why the sci-fi readers hated my books. It doesn’t make much sense.
But it doesn’t matter, either. I love those books. I believe in them. I put my real name on them.
In fact, I’ve got plots for at least two more books. I just never wrote them because I figured there was no point. But you know what?
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way? Maybe I should write them for me and not anyone else?
Which leads me back to Cordelia, and how she did this exact same thing, and then chickened out and wrote what the market demanded.
She’s going to throw that book away. And fine, that’s her business, I guess. It’s her career. I’m not gonna tell her what to do with it. But I am gonna tell her something else.
I go back into the main living room, flip on the TV and order pay-per-view and room service.
But I don’t drown my sorrows and spend the night in a pizza-and-beer-induced fog of self-loathing, either.
I make a choice.
I will win her back.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DAY FOUR — THE SIGNING
“You’re new to me,” the young lady who very much looks like a reverse image of me says.
She’s wearing almost the exact same outfit that I’m wearing, sort of an Audrey Hepburn cocktail dress that cinches at the waist and flares out in a bell shape at the bottom. Mine has polka dots and is blue. Hers has polka dots and is red.
We both have on glasses, although my frames are more rectangular and hers more round. I’m a brunette. She’s a redhead.
The good news is I think it’s a super-cute look. The bad news is I think she wears it all better than me and I suddenly feel very self-conscious.
I chose this for today because I wanted to come across as classic but perky. Friendly but sexy. Smart but not too smart. Y’know, charming and like the kind of chick who writes the kinds of books you’d want to read. And now, looking at someone who comes across like they’re not trying at all and just being who they are, I feel like I might be a giant asshole.
My brain is spinning since, for the second time in a number of weeks, Britney told me that what I wrote is… well, she didn’t have a lot of great things to say.
She wasn’t rude. Just as she was about Filling the Gap, she took pains to make sure I knew that she loves me and that she thinks I’m a good writer, but then she laid it out for me thus…
“That’s not you. That’s not what you write. That’s… well, honey, that’s smut.”
“But people love smut!”
“Right. Sure. People do.”
“You love smut!”
“Sometimes, yes. But it needs to feel… authentic, sweetheart. And that’s… It’s not you.”
“But I did all the things the readers in the panel said they want.”