CHAPTER TWO
A PILE OF KIT KAT wrappers lay beside me on the couch, damning evidence of one of my weaknesses…delicious wafers and creamy milk chocolate mixed in one irresistible treat. Ever since Kevin left, I’d been staring at my laptop screen, trying to get back into the groove of the story. My mind kept wandering to how we’d left things and the hurt on his face. Deep down, I may have harbored some feelings for him. I was smart enough to never act on those feelings. I had all the evidence I needed that so-called committed relationships were a farce. Someone always ended up hurt. I refused to do that to myself.
But now that I didn’t even have so much as a casual fling, I found myself uninspired. The words refused to flow. I tried to move on and work on a scene between my heroine and her flamboyantly gay BFF, but even that felt contrived and trivial. Then again, even when I was sleeping with Kevin, the book felt contrived and trivial. Kevin had been perfect for the past few books where my leading men were a tattooed bad boy, a tormented rock star, a leader of a motorcycle club. Kevin’s muscular, blue-collar persona was exactly what I needed to inspire my writing. But now that my leading man was a billionaire businessman, the game had changed. In order to finish this book by my deadline, I needed a spark of inspiration, and fast.
Grabbing the remote, I turned on the television and curled into a ball, flipping through all the movies I had on my Apple TV. They were mostly chick flicks I used to help inspire the illusion of love in my writing. Real love wasn’t real life, but I could certainly watch a Hollywood version of a cheesy romance.
Just as I settled on today’s choice — The Proposal seemed appropriate for my storyline — my cell phone rang. I groaned when I saw a New York City area code on the screen.
Clearing my throat, I hit the answer button. “This is Molly,” I said as cheerily as possible.
“Molly, it’s Tara,” a voice answered that evidenced a life-long cigarette addiction — low, gravelly, with an occasional cough that pierced my eardrums.
“Hi, Tara,” I sang in a chipper tone. I knew precisely why she called. I had less than a month to submit the final draft of my book. I’d yet to send her anything, not even a chapter. “How are you?”
“Let’s cut through the bullshit. I need a status update on this book… What is it? Seducing My Boss?” She made what sounded like a gagging noise. I couldn’t tell whether it was natural or intentional. I assumed it was the latter. I hated the title, too.
“I’m still working on it.” My voice oozed all the professionalism I could muster on just three hours’ sleep.
“Then why haven’t I seen anything yet? Is there something I should know?”
“Everything’s going great,” I lied. I couldn’t exactly tell my editor I’d been experiencing one of the worst cases of writer’s block I’d ever endured. Yes, I’d been writing, but for me, writer’s block wasn’t simply being unable to write anything. It was knowing the words I did write were complete crap, that the story had no meaning.
Truthfully, I had been feeling uninspired for a while now. I wondered if I’d ever have that drive and excitement I did when I first began writing. When I did it for me, not because I had some deadline and a contract to write a particular storyline looming over me.
“Great,” she answered in a clipped voice. “Then it won’t be too much trouble for you to send me what you have so far.”
“Why do you need that?” I stood from the couch, heading to the French doors. “It’s coming along fine. I’ll make my deadline.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I just want to make sure we’re on the same page with the direction of the book.”
I rolled my eyes, biting back the sarcastic remarks begging to be set free. Every single one of the books I was under contract for had the same exact direction. In fact, each pitch was practically identical, with just a few minor details changed. I could probably submit a few chapters of my previous books, changing the names, and they’d be none the wiser.
“I’m still in the process of transferring material from my notebook to my laptop.” I held my breath, wondering if she’d fall for my blatant lie. While I used my notebook to do some free writing from time to time to help get my creative juices flowing, I did most of my work on my laptop. Hell, most days, I felt like I was chained to the damn thing. If I wasn’t writing, I was interacting with my readers on social media.
“So you don’t have anything written.”
“I do,” I argued back, stepping onto my balcony. The sun was shining, warming my face. I’d grown tired of the gray skies that routinely plagued New England during the winter months. “I’ve got the story in my head and have pages full of notes.”
“Pages full of notes does not a story make.” She let out a long sigh. I imagined her leaning back in her chair and removing a pair of dark-framed glasses. “What’s really going on?”
“What do you mean?” I asked in an uncertain tone, chewing on my nails.
“Molly, I’ve been your content editor for how long now?”
“Five years,” I replied without even blinking.
“The fact we’ve never met doesn’t matter. I like to think I know you as a person. Something’s going on with you. Are you blocked?”
“What? No!” I answered, indignant. I didn’t know why I lied. This was a woman who had been in the publishing industry for nearly as long as I’d been alive. I was sure she had some tricks for getting rid of writer’s block. For some reason, I felt this was something personal I needed to work through without hearing everyone’s tips for overcoming it.
“Let me ask you something.”
I remained silent, waiting.
“Are you happy?”
“You’ve seen the deal my agent made with your publishing company. How could I not be happy with that?”
“No. Not with us. In general. Are you happy?”
I opened my mouth, shaking my head slightly as I kept my eyes trained on the street below me. A few of the neighborhood locals, Lenny and Anthony, had set up their lawn chairs on the sidewalk across the street. They waved, Anthony blowing me a kiss. The eighty-year-old man had been flirting with me since I turned eighteen.
“The reason I’m asking is I don’t feel as if I really know you, Molly.”
“You know me. You’re actually one of the only people who knows Vivienne Foxx is really a woman named Molly Brinks.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m able to get a feel for most of my other authors by working on their books. It’s subtle, but they infuse bits and pieces of themselves into their stories. Not you. Why’s that?”
I swallowed, tilting my head back as if the sky would hold the answers. Many author friends of mine reiterated the idea that “you write what you know” over and over again. Not me, though. I did everything I could to write every woman’s fantasy, keeping my personal life out of it.
“That could be just the ticket to overcoming whatever obstacle you’re facing that’s preventing you from working on this book,” Tara added when I remained silent.
I sank into one of the lounge chairs on my balcony, blowing out a long breath. How could I tell Tara I was tired of writing this kind of story? So many authors would kill to have the deal I’d been able to secure with this publisher, but after five years and over a dozen books, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat unfulfilled. There was part of me that wanted to use my talent to tackle serious topics, such as abuse, alcoholism, human trafficking, racism, mental illness, as I’d hoped to do when I first started out in this industry. I’d grown weary of always having to write what someone else wanted me to, not what I wanted to.
“So you want me to change the story?”
“No,” she replied quickly. “That’s not what I’m saying. You still have an obligation to deliver the story you promised. You can make a few minor changes…”
“Minor? How so?” I asked, the wheels turning in my head.
“You know what we sell here. We sell sexy. We sell sinful. We sell seductive. Most importantly, we sell happily ever after. As long as your story has all that, along with the forbidden romance you promised, I can work with anything else.”
I nodded, rubbing my temples.
“Think about your own love story.”
I coughed, choking. “What?”
“I’m sure you’ve been in love before. Use that as a jumping-off point.”
I bit my lip, remaining silent. It wasn’t that I didn’t love people. I loved my brother, my nieces, my large extended family, my friends. But had I ever been in love? I doubted my crush on Taylor Bennett in eighth grade counted. I thought it was love. He passed me notes between classes and even turned the “o” in my name into a heart, listing the reasons he loved me. Then he demonstrated his everlasting love by making out with Gretchen Wells at the Valentine’s Day dance. He had claimed he’d been hit by Cupid’s arrow when he saw me. I wanted to light that arrow on fire and pierce his heart with it.
“You’re a damn good writer, Molly, and I know you have a wonderful imagination. I’m certain your books are probably the reason for dozens of pregnancies.” She let out a cough-ridden laugh. “Get out of your house and find whatever inspires you to do what it is you do so well. I expect to see 20,000 words by Monday morning.” She paused, allowing what I believed to be an impossible assignment sink in. “Have a good weekend.” Then the line went dead.
How the hell was I going to find a new source of inspiration that worked for this book? And in just three days?