Chapter 13
Grayson
I have a lunch date today.
There’s only one person that I turn to besides my parents when I need guidance. He’s a guy that all the Wordsmiths have turned to from time time, both individually and as a group. He’s someone who started as an idol—a person who I molded my early career after, but who ultimately became a trusted friend. “North!” I yell as he walks in the door. We’re being true New Yorkers and grabbing a slice of pizza in between the events of our buys lives. Granted, North is ten times as busy as I am. The man has ten signings and seven books this year—and that’s on top of his Facebook live videos, mentoring hacks like me, and being married. The guy’s really Superman—or just a heavily tattooed Clark Kent.
He makes the short walk from the front door to where I’m sitting, and he catches all sorts of stares from the people in the place. He’s a guy who inspires stares. Covered in tattoos, bald headed, and always with a scowl on his face when he’s not smiling, North is the kind of guy whose way you get out of. He’s on his way to yet another signing, swinging through as always, and he’s so generous with his time that he’s willing to meet me for lunch.
“Grayson. What is going on, brother?” He gives me a big hug and we sit down.
“Not much, man, how about you? Haven’t seen you since RAAC. How’s the series going?”
“I’m sixty five thousand words into my new one already, but it needs a lot of editing. The main character needs a little bit more of an edge, I need a little more heat between the protagonist and the female lead, and I still need to find a way to have the readers attach to the next lead in character.” That answer is typical North. Ask him how is wife is and he’ll tell you she’s fine. Ask him about his new car and he’d tell you how sick it is. Ask him about a book he’s working on and he’s the most analytical mind you’ve ever met. He’ll tell you about characterization, plot, the benefits of a series over a standalone novel, and any other device you want to know about. Besides all that, he’s humble and he’s critical of his own work, always looking to make it better and improve upon weaknesses of his past books. He’ll be the first one to tell you the holes in his story, the problems with his characters, and the ways in which his plot could be stronger. His mind is always working, and being around it is like nothing else.
“You’ll get it all worked out, North. You always do.”
“Yeah, it’s a process, man, but I’m still in love with it. Writing is a woman I’ve been married to for years now, but we keep the relationship fresh. We still go out, we still talk, and we still fuck like rabbits. The second your writing becomes your roommate, you’re a hack author. Make your writing the hottest girl you ever had during your first date with her. You do that, and everything else will fall into place. Then it’s just about tightening up your mechanics. But your’e pretty good in that regard, I’ve read some of your stuff.”
“Well thanks.” I tell him. “That means a lot coming from you, of all people.”
I wasn’t kidding about North’s face. He’s not a huge guy at all, but he has one of those faces that’s just intimidating. Unless he’s smiling. His smile changes his whole demeanor from scary biker guy into the warm human being he actually is. His smile gives him away, which is why he doesn’t let it fly for just anyone. “You got it, man, you’re a hell of an author.” His words burn a little. They mean to do the opposite, but I have trouble hiding the pain his words cause. He sees it on my face right away. “What is it?”
“I’m having a hell of a time right now, dude. That’s the truth.”
“What’s going on?”
“All this talk about books. I feel like I can’t give my books away right now. The sales of my last book are shit. I lost money on it, and my ranking on amazon was so bad that I don’t even want to say it out loud.” I sound whinny and I hate that. I can hear it but I can’t help it. The last thing I want to do is sound like I’m complaining because there are people with real problems in the world—problems a lot more significant than bad romance book sales. But this is something I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to, and the idea of having to walk away from it really hurts. I don’t even look up at North. I don’t want to see the disappointment in his face, like I’m being a little bitch. Instead I look at the floor, waiting to be told to man up, or to suck it up and dig my heels in. Instead what I hear is a kind voice coming from my otherwise gravelly friend and mentor, followed by a hand on my shoulder.
“Listen to me, Grayson. This is a tough, tough business we’re in. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.” His tone of voice and his words take me by surprise, and I look up from the floor to make eye contact. Kind eyes stare back at me—eyes that wear a look of concern for my well being, and it warms my heart to see his compassion. “If anyone gets into this with the get-rich-quick mentality, they’re probably doomed to fail before they’ve even begun. I’m sure there are legions of those dumb motherfuckers out there—failed novelists in general, and failed indie romance novelists, in particular. I swear, Fifty Shades was more of a curse than a blessing.”
He’s right. I hate to say it but he’s right. I also hate to admit that even though Mike had done all of this research on the industry before we got into it, in the back of my mind I still thought of it as a way to get rich—in not quickly, than at least faster than starting a business or climbing some corporate ladder. If I’m being honest I thought that I’d be making a living doing this by now, but the realities of this are hitting me, big time, and maybe what I see as failure is just a normal part of the climb to success. “I may have been one of those people. I feel like I was. But I tried to do everything correctly. Build the platform, stay active on social media, write good books, get professional editing and covers, all of it. It just doesn’t seem to be paying off.”
North listens to every word I’m saying, but I can also see him thinking. The man’s mind is always at work, always analytical, whether it’s about his own career or someone else’s. He’s looking up to the ceiling, thinking of what to say next. “I get it. I do. Not everyone gets the experience that I had. I was lucky enough to hit it out of the gate pretty much from my second book, forward. Sure, I’ve had some ups and downs, but my downs are admittedly higher than some people ever reach in their entire career.”
“You need to work on your pep talk skills, North.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I’m not trying to discourage you, Grayson. The opposite, in fact. I’m not trying to compare my career to yours. What I’m trying to communicate is that we all have different experiences in this crazy game. Some hit it out of the park and become millionaires the second they hit that ‘publish now’ button on Amazon, but that’s so rare I can’t even describe it to you. If you can think of ten authors who that happened to you need to realize that there are probably ten thousand who sold less than one hundred copies of their first book. Then how many of those people jumped ship, said ‘fuck it’ to this publishing bullshit, and went back to their normal jobs? Probably close to seventy five percent, and that’s a conservative effort. The other success stories aren’t glamorous. They aren’t home runs, they’re just singles and doubles, all the way to a winning score. What I’m trying to say is if you’re going to beat yourself up and compare your writing career to others, you at least have to make a fair comparison. Otherwise you’ll drive yourself fuckin bonkers.”
This is why we listen to North. This, here. The words that are straightforward, sometimes hard to hear, but ultimately a truth that needs to be told. He’s right. I am being a little unfair to myself, but I decide to play devil’s advocate a little more, just to pick his brain a little. “Even if that’s the case,” I ask. “What’s the solution?”
“What do you mean?” He asks.
“Even if I don’t beat myself up and compare my rank on Amazon to EL James, or you, or anyone at that next level, how do I ever get there? Shouldn’t I be trying to be you guys in some way?”
“Absolutely not,” North says emphatically. “Fuck no, Grayson, of course not. You think LeBron became LeBron by emulating others? Sure, he probably had his inspirations and heroes in basketball, but he became a legend by being himself—by forging his own path and becoming a hero himself. You want to have EL James’ career? Good for you. So do I. It’s a good goal to have. But you don’t get to be like EL by trying to mimic her. Just doesn’t work like that. You need to be you. Write the stories that matter and write them frequently. Be brutally critical of everything you put on paper so that you’re giving your readers something of value, not just another disposable romance book with a set of abs on the cover. Be Grayson Blackman.”
I smile when he’s done with his speech. It’s a good one, and I’d expect nothing less. “Would you mind just saying all of that one more time so I can record it and play it once a night before bed?”
“Hell, if I’m the last thing you want to think of while you’re lying in bed at the end of the day, I’d be happy to! Get your phone out, I’ll try to say it all dramatic this time.”
We both laugh and everyone looks at us like we’re nuts. North’s slapping his leg and I’m crying, not only because of the joke, but because I feel better, and laughing like this is only something you can do when you’re unburdened, and North’s made me feel unburdened. “Shit man, I’m glad we made time for this. I needed that talk. I’ve been so down in the dumps.”
“No need. You’re a great writer, Grayson, and you know that I don’t just say shit to make people feel good, right? I’m no one’s fucking cheerleader. If I tell you something you’d best believe it. And you’re great. Just be critical. As yourself what’s not connecting? Is it an exposure issue, or a cover issue, or a storyline issue? Don’t be afraid to experiment, and ask the readers. You’ll make it to the other end. All of you Wordsmiths will.”
“Damn, man, I wish you were one of us, we’d be famous for sure. We almost asked you but we knew you’d say no.”
“There are only a few organizations I belong to—my Motorcycle club, my church back home, and my family. Other than that I’m a standalone novel. Don’t take that personally, you understand, I think the world of you, Knight, and Colton.”
“Oh we don’t, trust me. I’m not actually asking you, I know how you are. But thanks for the vote of confidence in us.”
“Just think of me as an affiliate—an honorary member—a silent partner. I’m always here for you guys, you all know that by this point, I hope.”
“We do. And I hope you know how much your direction has helped us. You really are True North.”
“That was a clever one by Knight, I have to give him that. I like the name. Probably because only you all call me that.” We get our slices after our heart to heart and chow down. North’s a pizza folder, and I watch him like he’s doing some magic trick. “What?” He asks as I stare at him put the pizza in his mouth.
“You’re a folder.”
“Huh?”
“Your pizza. You fold.”
“You don’t?” He asks.
“Never once in my life.”
“No shit?”
“Never.”
“Okay, you got my interest now. How come?”
“It’s going to sound super OCD and weird.”
“Fuck all that, just say it. I find people’s little quirks interesting.”
“Well, the thing about folding is that, if you do it, your mouth only hits the crust—the outside of the slice. When I appreciate the mouth feel of the cheese hitting the top of my palate. I wouldn’t want to give that up.”
North starts laughing hysterically again, so much that little chewed pieces of cheese, bread, and sauce come shooting out of his mouth and get over the table. He covers his mouth and wipes up the table with one of the small mound of napkins we took out of the dispenser on our table. “Dude, you just said two things that were pure gold.”
“What’s that?”
“First, I think you just gave me a title for my next standalone novel.”
“What?”
“Mouth Feel. That’s fucking gold. Well done. Plus, you used the word ‘palate’ in a sentence in a way that I’ve never heard outside of a dentist’s office. See what I mean. You’re brilliant.” We keep eating our slices. North folds the hell out of his slice while I just eat mine straight up, tip to crust. “Want another slice?”
“Yeah, fuck it, why not?” I say.
“That’s the spirit. I’ll grab them.” North goes to the counter and grabs us each other slice. While he’s up there on line I get a text from Rowan.
Rowan: Hey stranger. What are you doing?”
Shit. I feel like an asshole. I have so much shit in my head that I’ve neglected Rowan. I’m not even sure what that means, butI know that I should have called or texted her more than I have since I got back. We slept together, for God’s sake, and now I’m that guy—the one who dropped her off at her place and hasn’t contacted her since. She probably thinks I used her just for sex. I need to fix this.
Me: Hey. Rowan, I’m so sorry. I was catching up with the guys and all my writing stuff since I got back. No excuses, though, I should have texted.
Rowan: I was starting to feel insecure about what happened.
Me: Never. Please don’t. It’s honestly not you.
Rowan: So. . . How are you making it up to me, then?
Me: Dinner? Dancing? I’m good at that now, you know.
Rowan: I wouldn’t go that far. Dinner sounds great. How about tomorrow night.
Me: It’s a date. I’ll text you a place later. I’m finishing lunch with North.
Rowan: Oh nice. Tell him I say hi, even though I’m not sure he remembers me.
Me: I will. Talk to you later.
Rowan. Okay, bye.
I’m happy that that happened just now. Rowan’s been in the back of my mind, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? She should be right in the front, but all of this other crap has been distracting me. I’ll have to work on that. North gets back with the slices and puts mine down in front of me. “I got Sicilian this time, it just came out of the oven and puts those old-ass regular slices to shame.”
“Looks good, and smells even better. There’s nothing like a slice of pizza, fresh out of the oven.”
“No, there is not, my friend. Dig in.”
North’s phone vibrates on the table. “Sarah?” I ask.
“No, she’s home for this one. Caught a bug or something. Poor woman—I’ve never seen someone be that sick before.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. What was it, food poisoning?”
“No idea. All I know is that she was doing her best Linda Blair impersonation before I left. Her mother’s going over to take care of her because I can’t get out of this signing. Otherwise I’d be with her.”
“She’s a solider, huh?”
“That she is,” he says with pride in his eyes. “Why do you think I married the girl.”
“Cause she’s hot.” I say.
“Well, that, too, not gonna lie. But this isn’t her. My ride’s on it’s way.”
“Your ride?”
“I drove here but going to leave the car with a buddy who’s picking it up later. You’re not the only one I’m meeting up with today. Some of my boys are coming by in a little. They’re stuck in traffic at the moment, apparently.”
“Welcome to New York,” I joke. “The home of traffic.”
“No shit, man.”
By the time the last piece of my Sicilian slice is being swallowed I feel like I’m about to burst out of my pants. I love pizza—Sicilian especially, but it’s a lot of bread. I drink some water and take a deep breath, like I just ran around the block or something. We keep talking for a few while he waits for his ride to show up. We’re just shooting the shit about the book world, the women in our lives, and whatever else comes up along the way. I’m not really focused on anything else except North’s words, so when I hear another voice speak to me it takes me a minute to realize who it is. I turn to my left and what do I see? The Brotherhood—all three of those motherfuckers—standing over us, looking like complete hell.
“Well, look who it is?” North says, acting like there’s nothing weird about this at all. “It’s like a goddamn male romance conference at this pizza place. Welcome boys, what’s going on?” They just stand there at first, as if North didn’t even speak to them. All three of them are looking at me, and I’m looking back. I don’t know if North knows all of the details about what happened between the two groups since the Wordsmith signing, but he has to be feeling the tension right now. I feel ganged up on, and I don’t even realize it but I ball my fist on my lap, ready to fight them all by myself at a moment’s notice. North stays calm and friendly. His demeanor is freaking me out a little bit, but that’s probably the better approach to take.
KL speaks first. “Where are all your butt buddies?” He asks.
“Did you just say ‘butt buddies’? So not only are you a shitty writer and close to being a convicted felon, but you’re also homophobic. Wow, where the fuck did your parents go wrong with you?” My comeback is swift and strong. If we were physically fighting that wouldn’t have been a knockout blow, but it would have been a knockdown blow. Even Johnathan has a grin on his face that he’s trying to hide. His time is coming.
“What did you say, you little prick?” KL asks.
“You heard me.” I tell him, looking him right in the eyes. KL is a coward. They all are. Every confrontation between our two groups hasn’t been us and them fighting it out like men. No. Every time they confront us they get out insulted, and usually resort to some underhanded high school bullshit. There’s something different in their demeanor today. KL, Johnathan, and Roland all look a little more aggressive, like they came here to beat me up or something. “And what the fuck? Can you guys keep off my dick, or what? Every time we go somewhere one or all of you show up. Do you have nothing better to do besides write shitty books that don’t sell?”
“I wouldn’t throw stones on that point, Grayson.” I look right at Roland. He’s got a more obvious grin on his face now, only it’s not because he’s laughing at a joke I made, it’s because he knows what a sore spot that issue is. After all, that’s why he was the one who confronted me about it like he did in the first place.
“Well, hot damn boy, these sound like fighting words to me!” It’s North speaking now, and he still has that huge smile on his face, like this whole thing is really entertaining him. “Is that what you all came here to do? Cause if so let’s get after it already. All this talking shit is for high school girls.”
North isn’t just well respected by the Wordsmiths, he’s just respected, period. Everyone in the industry at least knows of him, even if they don’t know him personally. I’m curious how Brotherhood is going to react to him. Knowing their dumb asses, they’ll probably. . .
“Stay out of this, old man. We didn’t come here to fuck you up, but we will. Just sit there and sip your coke.”
Roland is such an asshole. That word doesn’t even do it justice. If the assholes were a cult, he’d be their Supreme Leader. I look at North to see what his reaction is going to be. He still has the smile on his face, only it has a menacing quality to it. The Brotherhood are probably too stupid to even notice the subtle change in expression, but I see it right away. North’s ready to fuck some shit up, and I know that if they say one more threatening word, that we’re going to have ourselves a male romance author brawl right here in the pizza parlor. I can almost hear the six o’clock news announcement now.
North’s phone vibrates again, but he doesn’t look down. He just keeps eye contact with all the guys and even tries to be reasonable with them. “Look, y’all, I get it. I know you boys have hit the skids lately, what, with all your legal troubles KL, and your book stuffing issues, Johnathan and Roland. In fact, Grayson and myself were just discussing how rough of an industry this can be sometimes. But you don’t need to take any of your anger or frustration out on the wrong people. We’re just here getting some lunch, then we’re gonna be on our way. This confronting people in a pizza place kind of shit—it’s bad for business. We’re not in middle school.”
“I think my friend told you to stay out of our business.” This time it’s KL. He looks the worst of any of them—worse than usual, and that’s saying something, cause he’s looked like shit most times I’ve seen him.
“Alright,” North says, this time standing up and standing almost nose to nose with KL. “Let me say this to you a different way.” KL takes a step backwards when North stands up. All of them do. I stand up to join him, but before I can even jump in I hear the roar from outside. It’s so loud that everyone inside shifts their gazes from us to outside. North doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t do anything except let the situation speak for itself. I turn around and see them. There are about twenty mean looking bikers pulling their bikes into the parking lot and the free spots on the street just outside where we are. It’s an intimidating scene—the noise of their engines almost deafening. “Those are my friends, out there, KL. You see them? That’s my Brotherhood. And they aren’t gonna just take your laptop and take some pictures of you, either.”
North’s words surprise me. I guess he has been keeping up with all the drama. The guy never ceases to impress. The Brotherhood looks intimidated, and they should be. “So that’s your move, huh, North?” It’s Johnathan this time. “You need a crew of guys just to deal with us? I thought better of you, old man.”
North smiles again, bigger than before, and steps forward again. “You’ve got the situation all wrong, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at this point. Not my style to let others fight my battles, Johnathan. See, I’m the one who’s gonna do the hurting, starting with you. My friends are just there as an audience, and in case your boys decide to make it a three on two situation.” Johnathan looks like he’s about to shit his pants “So, make your move. What happens next is completely up to you. I can either leave you for dead, or finish my lunch with my friend. What’s it gonna be?”
I think what I’m struck by most is how calm North is—he’s practically whispering his threats. The roar of engines starts up again, and the three guys jump. I smile. They need to save face here, so they just leave silently through the front entrance, avoiding all contact with North’s motorcycle club.
“Well,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “That was very interesting.”
“Cowards, one and all.” North says. “I can smell fear like that a mile away. Worst smell in the world. Ruins the smell of pizza in here.” North looks around and sees the looks on everyone’s faces. Some people look scared. “Ladies and gentleman, there’s nothing to be concerned about. Those men out there are loud but harmless. You have my word on that. They’re just here to pick me up. Please enjoy the rest of your lunch. Nothing to worry about.” Then he looks over at me. “Think this is a good time to get out of here, huh?”
“It’s a pretty natural transition, I agree. Let’s go.”
We walk outside into the afternoon air. The sun is shining bright today, and it feels like the start of a new beginning for me. I have my part of the Wordsmith book, and I have my own book. I feel ready.
“That was about the most badass thing I’ve seen in a long time,” I tell North. “Maybe ever, I’m not sure.”
“Oh, hell, Grayson,” he answers. “That wasn’t anything. That was another Wednesday afternoon. One day I’ll tell you all of my crazy fucking stories. That shit will turn your hair white—make today look like nothing.”
“I look forward to it. Good luck at the signing.” The sound of engines roaring takes over, and I hug North and thank him for his help. “Until next time.”
“Until next time, brother. Be good. And keep fucking writing. I hear you quit writing books to sell insurance or some bullshit I’m gonna bring these guys to you house and beat your ass. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alright then.”
North turns to leave. One of the women who was driving his bike jumps off, and onto the back of another bike. When he gets on he looks the part—the tattoos, the attitude, the roaring engine—it all suits him perfectly. I’m glad things didn’t escalate today, but for a minute there I was hoping that they would. “Hey, North!” I yell.
“Yeah?”
“Those stories. The ones that’ll turn my hair white?”
“Yeah, what about them?”
“You should write them all down. That sounds like a book to me. I think that’d be a bestseller before it was even out.”
He stops to consider it, and he looked like the thought never ever crossed his mind. “That’s an idea and a half. Maybe I will. See, Grayson, we help each other out.”
“Good journey, man.”
North waves and they all tear off, making a demeaning amount of noise as they leave. It’s startling, but it’s also one of the coolest sounds I can remember hearing. I have a long way to go, but I feel better right now. I have ideas, but more importantly than that I have some of my confidence back. Now I can turn my attention where it really belongs.
To Rowan.