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)
“How is that a bad thing?” I can’t believe she’s using my own food metaphors against me.
“It’s not! It’s a great thing! The problem is you don’t run a steakhouse. You run a candy shop. And when people come to the candy shop to buy their gumdrops and chocolate balls and stuff and you instead hand them this other thing that they aren’t expecting and didn’t ask for, they’re going to be disappointed. That doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t enjoy your steak in a different context, but you’re not selling them the thing your store claims to sell and what they came in to get.”
I stared at her for a long time after she said that last bit, trying to come up with counterarguments and defenses of the thing she had just read.
But, ultimately, she was right.
I cooked a filet mignon instead of making bonbons. And so, as much as I fought and railed against the notion internally, I changed it.
I changed her name to Hope and I rewrote the end so that instead of Apollo getting killed in a rockslide, they just fuck on the side of the mountain instead and are rescued by the National Park Service.
And that’s what’s in the boxes being unloaded from the car. A thing that’s mine and also not mine all at once. And, I mean, look… I’m okay with that. I really am. I don’t want to turn into one of those arrogant asshole writers who wears tweed jackets with elbow patches and thinks they’re better than everyone else. But it’s tough to feel really, really good about a thing you’ve written and have nobody else see it.
I kept one copy of the original manuscript. I have it right on top in one of the boxes. As I’m standing at my table the day after tomorrow, handing out free copies of Filling the Gap 2.0, I want to keep the original source material close. I don’t know why. But I gave up trying to figure out some of my odder habits a long time ago.
Right now, I’m putting all that aside. Because as we enter the lobby and I see all the ‘WELCOME, SIN WITH US AUTHORS!’ banners and signs everywhere, I get kind of giddy. I’m here. I got invited to a real book convention with real, big-time, bestselling authors, and I’m here with them. I’m included. I’m part of the club.
I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little kid, and I am one. And this is evidentiary proof of that. And that’s the only thing I’m going to focus on. I’m going to quiet my mind and my anxiety and just be glad to be here.
Where I’m supposed to be.
Where I belong.
“What do you mean I don’t have a room?”
The woman behind the check-in desk keeps looking down at her computer monitor, shaking her head. Her name tag says ‘Rhonda.’ “Yeah, I’m sorry, I only have one room on the reservation.”
“Well, that’s a mistake,” Britney says, tapping on the counter with her claw-like nails. “I made the reservation and I very definitely reserved two rooms.”
“I believe you,” Rhonda, who wears a blazer and ruffled neck shirt that seems anachronistic and out of place on a young woman in Vegas, says half to herself as she keeps typing and looking at the screen, “but I only have one room here for Cynthia Lear. Strip view, king bed, that’s what I’ve got.”
“Well… Can you check under the name Cordelia Sarantopoulos and see if you have a second room under that name?” I ask.
“I didn’t give them your name.” Britney.
“How do you spell that?” Rhonda.
“S-A-R,” I start.
“There’s no way it’s under your name.” Britney.
“S-A-R…” Rhonda.
“Did you maybe reserve another one under your name?” Me.
“No.” Britney. “Why would I reserve one under my name?”
“S-A-R…” Rhonda.
“Okay, fine,” Britney says, spinning back to the ruffle-necked young lady. “Whatever. Can you just give us another room now?”
“I’m afraid not,” Rhonda says. “We are completely sold out because of the convention.” She really leans into ‘completely,’ making a special point of emphasis on the word to let us know that completely means completely.
“No sky suites? Nothing?” Britney asks.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Okay, listen,” Brit says, tilting her head at Rhonda confidentially, “I know that you always hold out one or two rooms for VIPs. Do you know who this is?”
“Brit,” I start, “don’t—”
“This,” she kind of stage-whispers, “is Cynthia Lear. The Cynthia Lear.”
Rhonda looks at me and I try to smile. I hold up my hand in a tiny wave.
“I know,” Rhonda responds with a nod. “I have the name on the reservation for the room. The one room. The one room booked under the name Cynthia Lear.”
“Rhonda, you gotta be able to—”
“I’m sorry,” Rhonda interrupts. She makes an apologetic face and shrugs. “There’s really nothing I can do. There are several other hotels you can try…”