Inspiration can be hard to find for a woman like me, but it’s not without trying.
When I look out the window of my modest Brooklyn apartment, I see that the world happening all around me is beautiful, and strange, and special, but for some reason that just won’t translate into excitement. I’m a writer by trade, and you’d think that means I can write about anything I want, but unfortunately that’s not the case. I need to be excited about something if I’m gonna put pen to paper, or in my case, fingers to keyboard.
It’s always been this way, and between you and me, I’d call this my secret weapon. This is how I managed to develop a full fledged writing career without any previous experience in the publishing industry, how my first novel, Her Broken Heart, managed to explode into a viral sensation the likes of which nobody has ever seen.
I only write when I’m passionate to write, and because of that, I only create books with true, breathtaking, potent, bleeding, honest heart and soul.
Then again, I’ve only published one book.
I’ve been sitting here staring out the window of my apartment for days now, my eyes following the men in suits on their way to work, the young guys playing basketball in the park across the street and the woman shouting into a megaphone on the corner. They’ve all got their own important stories to tell, and I know this, but they aren’t my story. They aren’t the follow up that I need to a first novel that was so sizzling hot, the very prospect of another one seems to make people scoff and roll their eyes.
Even worse, it makes those in the publishing industry smirk to themselves, excited to watch me crash and burn when the world proves that lightening doesn’t strike twice.
Ironically, when I wrote my first novel I was in a similar place, fresh off a new breakup and deeply questioning whether or not I would ever be able to trust again. After Her Broken Heart came out I was thrust into the spotlight, although it wasn’t exactly the brightest spotlight thanks to the fact that the literary world only matters so much compared to the twinkling stars of Hollywood. This brief flash of fame brought about all kinds of suitors, and soon enough that hole inside of me was filled by a man who I thought I could trust, but ended up being just as bad as the guys before him.
Suddenly, there’s a loud hum that causes me to jump in my seat. I glance down at my phone as it vibrates across the desk, immediately recognizing the number of my apartment front door buzzer. I have no idea who this could be, but the mystery itself suddenly makes the answer abundantly clear. There’s only one person who would show up in the middle of the afternoon like this, unannounced, the one person who has been riding my back lately, even more concerned about the next novel than I am.
“Hello?” I answer, putting the caller on speakerphone.
“You writing yet?” comes the familiar voice of my agent.
“Yes, Taylor, I’m just about finished. Only a few more sentences and you’ve got yourself another hit,” I tell her flatly.
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line, the silence hanging between us while Taylor’s mind races. She’s well away of my dry sarcasm, and she should know better by now, but she’s also clearly blinded but the faint prospect of real steps being made towards a follow up.
“Are you serious?” my agent finally questions.
“No,” I tell her bluntly.
Another moment of silence hangs in the air between us.
“Do you want to come up?” I finally ask with a laugh.
I don’t even wait for an answer, pressing the keypad on my phone and instantly hearing my apartment’s front door open through the speakers with a loud, rattling clank. Footsteps come softly clicking up my staircase and seconds later there’s a short, staccato knock at my door.
Taylor is hilarious. She’s been here hundreds of times now, and we’re about as close as an agent and writer can get, yet her timid nature won’t even allow her to enter my home without knocking first. She’s prim and proper, the opposite of an artist like myself.
“You know you can just come right in,” I call out.
The door opens slightly and Taylor pokes her head out from the crack. “What?”
“I said you can just come in,” I laugh. “I’ve told you this a thousand times.”
The agent nods and steps into my apartment living room, dressed in a well cut suit and skirt combination that’s just inches away from being stylish but not quite getting there thanks to the drab coloring and conservative hemline.
“I know, I know,” Taylor assures me, “but this is your space as a writer. I don’t want to disrupt that.”
My agent takes the world of creative people very seriously, due to the fact that she’s a complete and utter outsider there. I’d go so far as to say that there’s not a single creative bone in Taylor’s body, not as a slight, but as an honest assessment of her character. The thing is, she clearly loves art and writing, and as a fan she’s made it quite far in the world of publishing. She knows well enough to give her artists what they want, but sometimes she can take things overboard.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t been writing,” I offer. “I’ve just been staring out my window for…” I trail off, then pick up my phone and check the hour.
Moment’s later, I realize that the time of day still isn’t gonna cut it, then make a note of the date. “Three weeks,” I finally state, bluntly. “I haven’t written a word in three weeks.”
Taylor just stares at me, her mind racing but her expression staying completely stoic. She knows that I like to fuck with her.
“Riley, are you serious?” my agent questions.
I nod.
“What happened to those ten pages you were working on,” Taylor continues, trying to hide her deep concern.
“No good,” I admit. “I deleted them.”
My agent’s eyes go wide. “Why would you do that? I didn’t even get a chance to read them!”
“No good,” I repeat, shaking my head from side to side. “They were just… filler, there wasn’t any heart. The words sounded okay when you slid them up next to each other, but nothing behind them mattered.”
Taylor lets out a long sigh, trusting the process. “Alright, alright. Just remember, the longer it takes for us to get your next book out, the more interest starts to die.”
I’m a little shocked when my friend says this. She’s utterly terrified to disrupt the creative process, and yet somehow bringing up the shelf life of my fame is fair game. This is unlike her.
“You’re pressuring me,” I remind Taylor. “That’s just going to make things worse. Us writers need space for new ideas to bloom. You’re in my garden, Taylor. You’re trampling all the little flowers as they try to poke their heads out of the dirt. They’re so small and pretty and you’re just stomping through with your big boots, not even looking.”
I expect to get a smile out of this from my agent but she remains completely straight faced. “You’re not hearing me,” Taylor tries again. “I’m saying the longer it takes, the more interest starts to die.”
“You’re just saying the same thing,” I inform my friend. “Those are literally the same words.”
Taylor hesitates a bit longer and then finally cracks, her expression shifting to one of frustrated defeat. She walks over to the nearby couch and flops down onto it, her body going from a typically rigid stance to one of utter relaxation.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” my agent starts, “because the company wants to be very careful with how the handle things moving forward.”
“I’m listening,” I reply.
“You know that we have a new CEO at Price Publishing, right?” Taylor questions.
“You mentioned that,” I offer. “You also mentioned how it didn’t matter in the slightest.”
“Turns out, it does,” my agent continues. “Rick, the new CEO, he’s going to clean house soon. Nothing has happened yet, but every day we’re having meetings about what writers are headed to the chopping block next; who we can afford to keep and who we can afford to lose.”
Suddenly, a flicker of panic bubbles up within me. I try my best to stay calm and push it away, but there’s no denying the fact that it’s there. I’m usually relaxed enough to let these kinds of things wash over me, understanding that everything will work itself out in the end, but seeing Taylor’s terrified expression has put me on edge. She’s usually so good about maintaining a professional air, and this break in character signifies something powerful brewing behind the scenes.
“I wrote your best selling novel of last year,” I remind her. “There’s no way any of this applies to me.”
“Three years,” Taylor counters.
“What?” I question, confused.
“You wrote the best selling novel of the year three years ago,” my agent clarifies. “It’s been longer than you think.”
I close my eyes and try to remember that moment when I walked over to the store and picked up a freshly printed copy of Her Broken Heart, flipping through the pages with a deep breath as the intoxicating scent of new book smell filled my nostrils. There’s no way that was over a year ago, I think to myself, but the longer I focus on this memory, the more I start to realize that time has been passing a lot faster than I thought.
“So what?” I finally blurt. “Two years go by and people start to forget about you?”
Taylor doesn’t react.
“Seriously?” I question.
My agent shrugs. “You’ve got a lot of fans who are anxious for a follow up, but romance is a difficult genre. There’s so much of it out there, and if you’re not releasing things consonantly, your fans tend to move on to something new.”
“My book’s not romance!” I counter.
This has long been a point of contention between the publishing company an me, a battle that I was eventually forced to surrender. I’ve always considered Her Broken Heart to be piece of serious literature with romantic undertones, but the folks in business suits see things differently. I suppose I should be thankful that they do, because my novel was a massive genre hit, but it’s something that I still find myself dwelling on.
“Whatever you want to call it is fine,” Taylor continues. “It still needs a follow up. Listen, you know that I’m on your side in all this, you know that I want the best for you as an artist, but you need to start writing again.”
I don’t protest. I’m aware of all this, and just as frustrated with my own writer’s block as Taylor is.
“Besides, your fans aren’t the problem. The problem is that our new CEO wants to see forward momentum. Everything he’s in the process of cutting is being dropped to make room for the future, and three years ago might as well be twenty to him. He’s trying to shape things in his image, which means there needs to be a new project in the works from you,” my agent explains. “You need fresh words.”
“Well, what am I suppose to do?” I suddenly blurt, frustrated. “I’m sitting up here trying to find inspiration but it’s all the same shit outside my window every day! This is where I wrote Her Broken Heart from start to finish, you’d think there’d be so mojo left in this old wooden desk.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” my agent offers. “Maybe you need a change of scenery.”
“Where can I go?” I question. “I love my parents, but it’s not like I have any space to work when I visit them. I don’t have a vacation home to go to.”
“I have one,” Taylor interrupts.
I stare at her blankly, suddenly trying to calculate exactly how much one makes as a literary agent. I’m the one with the record-breaking bestseller, but Taylor’s got the vacation home?
“Really?” I finally ask.
Taylor nods. “I mean, it belonged to my parents, now it belongs to me. Have you ever heard of the San Juan Islands?”
I shake my head, suddenly dreaming of swaying palm trees and beautiful white sand beaches. “It sounds tropical.”
“It’s not,” my agent replies with a laugh, “but it’s secluded, and it’s definitely a change of scenery. I think it’d be hard not to find inspiration there. The cabin is on Orcas Island, part of the San Juans. It’s right off the coast of Washington State.”
“Washington State,” I repeat back to Taylor, furrowing my brow. “That’s pretty damn far.”
“Exactly,” she retorts. “I used to spend summers over there. Now that autumn is rolling around the island should be almost completely empty. Just you and nature… and your laptop, of course.”
“Of course,” I offer, with a smile.
I turn around and gaze out the window, considering my options. As much as I complain about the monotony of my life at the moment, there’s also something incredibly cozy about the fact that I know exactly what’s going to happen at any given time. I know where I’m going to get dinner tonight, what it’s going to feel like waking up in my own bed every morning.
A change is definitely a good idea, but days, weeks or months spent on a tiny island at the opposite end of the country is much more drastic than I was thinking.
“Maybe I’ll just go upstate,” I offer, my gaze still transfixed on the street below.
The second that I say this, I notice the city bus pull up right on schedule, rolling to a stop and then opening up its doors with a loud, dramatic hiss. I can recognize the bus driver, taking note of the fact that he’s drinking his usual order of piping hot black coffee.
Before the passengers have a chance to exit the bus I rattle off their descriptions under my breath. “Old lady, man with briefcase and blue tie, kid in Yankees gear carrying a grocery bag.”
Moments later, a little old woman climbs down the bus steps carefully, using the railing support until she finds a sturdy footing on the curb. Behind her, the man in the suit nearly bowls her over, rushing off to some important meeting in his light blue, striped tie, and bringing up the rear is the young guy in a Yankee’s uniform.
I knew they were coming, because that’s just what happens on Tuesday.
“What was that?” Taylor calls over, confused by the fact that I’m now mumbling to myself.
I turn around to look at my friend again. “Maybe I could use a change of scenery. How long can I stay at your cabin?”
“If you’re writing, as long as it takes,” Taylor replies excitedly.
I smile, trying my best not to let on to the fact that, honestly, I have no idea how much writing I’ll actually accomplish. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if I never wrote another word, the once overflowing well within my soul completely tapped dry.
That’s not gonna stop me from trying though.