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)
“I don’t care what they said in the panel. Is that what you want to write?”
“I… I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.” That’s the point at which I kind of broke down and she held me.
“Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. This is partially my fault.”
“How is it your fault?” I said between sniffles.
“I never should have told you to change your book. It was great just how it was. I was just trying to look out for you.”
“I know,” I told her as I snotted all over her shirt.
Ugh. I hate snotting on things.
In any case, all that’s happened over the last seventy-two hours (!) has me swirling out. But, of course, that’s a lie. It’s not just the last seventy-two hours. My path to uncertainty within myself started way, way before that. This just feels like an inflection point.
Who am I? What do I love? What do I want?
Very much not the questions I thought I would be asking myself this weekend. The toughest questions I planned to confront were ‘do I play red or black?’ and ‘should I crack open the minibar or is that being frivolous?’
But. Here we are. Speaking of being here…
“Sorry, what?” I ask Redhead Polka Dot Hepburn, who doesn’t even seem to notice that we’re each other’s doppelganger.
“I said, ‘But Audrey Saint told me I needed to come over and check you out.’”
“She did?” I ask, a little taken aback. I glance over at Audrey’s table. The line to meet her and have her sign books goes almost halfway down the length of the room. They have the floor taped off in a serpentine pattern leading up to her just to accommodate the demand and ensure that her readers don’t wind up crowding that section of the hall.
I see James, Audrey’s husband, dutifully snapping a photo of Audrey and one of her fans posing together in front of her big, ‘#1 NY TIMES BESTSELLER’ banner and then handing the phone back to the giddy attendee. He sees me as well and waves, gives me a thumbs-up. I nod back and then turn my attention back to Not Me.
“That’s so nice,” I say.
She looks at the copies of all three of my books spread out on the table, the first two Purity Principle books and Filling the Gap. “Which of these should I read?” she asks.
“Oh. Well, these two are the first two I wrote and are a series. And this one is a standalone I finished recently. It’s an ARC, so it’s free if you’d like it.”
She picks it up and reads the blurb on the back. She takes a really long time, like she’s mulling it over or something, and then, finally, says, “You write a good blurb.”
I can feel myself blush. Which is… surprising, I guess, but it feels nice to hear something nice right now. “Thanks,” I say.
“I’ll check it out.”
“Great!” I know I give that ‘great’ about fifty percent more emphasis than it requires, but I really, really needed the boost. It’s been kind of a slow morning so far. Not really a stampede to get to my table. Which is made all the more apparent by the prime placement I have here in the middle of the room, right where everyone can see. I think I may have brought too many books. “You should feel free to grab a couple more, if you like.”
“Thanks,” she says, looking at the table.
“Would you like a picture with Cynthia?” Britney asks, jumping in eagerly, seizing the moment. I turn to stare at her with a very strong ‘please don’t’ expression. She stares back at me with a ‘what, I’m helping’ look. I counter with a ‘stooooop’ face. But it winds up not mattering because the cooler version of Cordelia says, “No, I’m good,” then sashays away, dress swinging off her hips as she moves into the rest of the crowd and disappears.
“That was nice,” Britney encourages.
“Yeah,” I work out before letting my torso rise and fall in a sigh.
“Hey…” Britney starts, but I cut her off because her job is supposed to be ‘assistant,’ not ‘therapist.’ Although I suppose she has been assisting in keeping me from chewing my fingers off of my hands.
“No, no. All good,” I say, plastering a smile on my face that I know she can see through, but I don’t care. I just want to get through this, get back to LA, and then I can figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll become a Christmas tree farmer. Open a Christmas tree farm. That’s a thing people do, right? I love the smell of pine needles, so—
“How’s it going?” a distinctly male and distinctly familiar voice says from off to the side.
Both Britney and I turn to see Steve approaching. He’s wearing the usual casual cool… everything… that I’ve come to know over the last couple of days. Untucked button-down, chilled-out khakis, boots that probably cost as much as two months of my rent in Sheila’s pool house. (Which I only know because my dad is a big shoe guy. When I was a kid he once said, in his light Greek accent, “You can spend a few bucks on shoes and have them last a year, or you can invest in a pair and have them last a lifetime. Money is never wasted if it’s invested in your future happiness, my girl.” The fact that he has a closet full of investments kind of belies the point—how many lifetimes does he expect to live?—but it’s still okay advice.)