Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
We were the essence of “it wasn’t meant to be.”
I take another sip of my wine and look down at Benji. “We just need to keep trying. That’s all. One day, we’ll find our soul mates.”
Benji lets out another little woof and tilts his head. I sigh. “Don’t be like that. Just because I spend ninety-nine percent of my time here in this apartment in some form of pajamas with you and the characters inside my head does not mean I’m not trying.”
He rests his head on his paws, and I swear, he rolls his eyes at me.
“Hey! Don’t be so judgy. You know I have issues putting myself out there. I have a lot going on, you know? I’m pseudo-famous, which is a joke, but I am, and I have very nearsighted eyes and a limited ability to poke my eyeballs with contacts.” I put a hand to my hip. “On top of that, I have a voyeur dog who has to be with me all the time to make sure I don’t pass out and, you know, die. I’m a lot to handle compared to the superfit Insta-models with no structured job and the flexibility of an Olympic gymnast.”
Climbing back into my computer chair like a complicated mix of spider monkey and shriveled old lady, I pull the chunky knit blanket from my ottoman and drape it across my legs. It only takes a few clicks to open my manuscript back up and start reading again while Dolly serenades softly in the background.
I mouth the words as I read through my final draft of Garden of Forever, hearing the words in my head and picturing them as though my glasses are a portal to a film-dimension.
But the garden is that of a flower’s life cycle—forever and futile all at once. We’re here for a good time, not for a long time and all that jazz.
Fabian lets out a deep, unsteady exhale, the realization of his demise all-consuming.
Life is, after all, life.
“If only I’d unsheathed my sword when Swanson asked, I might not be here, bleeding into the grass.”
Dread settles into the base of my neck and shoots pain behind my eyes. I cannot believe my new, hot-as-facckkk editor Chase Dawson is going to read this pile of garbage as his first taste of me.
It doesn’t seem fair, and it doesn’t seem real. This is awful—hardly even coherent, if I’m honest—and nothing like my successful first trilogy, The Shadow Brothers. They were pithy and witty and smart.
This…this is like something Benji left on the sidewalk for me to pick up.
Chase Dawson is going to think I used a ghostwriter for my first series. Either that, or I suffered a very traumatic brain injury in between the publication of those and this.
Gah.
Garden of Forever and I never found our stride.
And I’m saying that after I’ve written “The End” and revised this WIP for the past month until I’ve reached the point that every time I look at it, I feel nauseated.
Not a good sign for a book that’s supposed to be my next big release after a series that landed me a Netflix deal.
I imagine my readers using their copies of Garden of Forever for toilet paper and kindling on cold nights, and it’s enough to make me wonder if Longstrand is going to drop me like a bad habit after they read this steaming pile of trash.
The thing is, though, it’s not like I can’t write anything. I know for a fact that my brain still works, because anytime the block has really gotten me in a bind on Garden of Forever, I’ve moved over to a different project—a manuscript of a different color, if you will. One that, under no circumstances, is ever to be shown the light of day.
On a whim, I minimize the window for Garden of Forever and search my other recent documents. Accidental Attachment, my contemporary romance about TV anchor River Rollins and her producer Clive Watts, isn’t far from the top, and consequently, it’s only a brief moment before it’s open on my screen.
Involuntarily, my breasts swell in my tank top, and the pace of my breathing escalates. Clive and River together are…hot. The five-alarm kind that is a roller coaster of intense passion and emotional devastation. But they’re not what my readers are used to, and the inspiration…well, it comes from a little bit of a personal place.
I scroll down into the Intro and start to read.
Strong, unhurried fingertips lift at the edge of my pencil skirt, scraping it up the skin of my thighs, and my head lolls back. This anchor desk is big and cumbersome—both normally great features that I use to hide my slippers when I have to rush to make live time—and it conceals Clive as he breathes a warm puff of air against the burning flesh beneath my lace panties.