Page 27 of Loathing My Boss
What fluffy motivational trash speak is that?
Don’t tell me the morninghoorahshave already gotten to him, after one measly day.
“What if you can’t afford a proper editor and are considering going…” She swallows, braces herself. “…independent?”
“Independent is a great option, but it does have more upfront costs in order to make the higher backend royalties. Until you start getting returns and can afford an editor, make sure you at least have a handle on grammar and get some critique partners or beta readers to go through the book with you. They may not be professionals, but having someone else’s eyes on your work to tell you whether or not they enjoyed it will provide some validation, if that’s what you’re looking for while you grow as a writer.”
This conversation is making me sick.
What did I dosowrong that Viktor couldn’t spend this much time offering me the same kindnesses and encouragement? Was my bookreallyso bad that all he could tell me was to start over and try again and that every area needed a blanket statement of help?
Even just the assumption that I would dare to send him afirstdraft was cruel. I combed through my book a dozen times before sending it to him. I was delusional, thinking I’d query, get an agent, become anauthor, so I’d been working on that thing foryears.
Heart and soul.
Blood and tears.
Andit wasn’t good enough for a single, vague compliment. A scrap—amodicum—ofyou can do this.
“Crisis?” Viktor’s voice squeezes a fist around my heart, and I look up to find his and the woman’s eyes pinned on me.
A scrambled egg falls off my toast. The wet lump lands in my spoon, which somehow flips the utensil into my open chocolate milk carton.
Dully, I reach for a napkin to wipe the karma splatters off my face. “Yes?”
The woman blinks, staring—appalled, horrified, shocked—at the spoon sticking out of my milk, but eventually she contains herself. “Gracious. I’m so sorry.” She looks at Viktor. “Is this your wife?”
Ew.
Viktor’s eyes widen, expression falling short of the appropriate level of disgust.
The redhead stammers, “S-sorry. It’s just. I’ve seen you both go in and out of the same room in the morning.” Her hands fly up, defending. “I’m not stalking! Promise! I was just coming down the stairs at the same time and saw.”
I stand, putting the poor lass out of her misery. “I’m not his wife. I’m his assistant. There was a mixup with the rooms, but since we’ve worked together so closely for two years, we decided not to make a big deal of it.” I fix my eyes on my boss. “Viktor, I’m gonna get started on today’s tasks since the whole…” I wave my free hand as I pick up my plate. “…morning writer thing isn’t really for me.”
It’s for other people, whose goals remain intact. It’s for writers who still think they’ll be authors someday. It’s for dreamers who cry and hug or find themselves overflowing with determination.
It’s not for people who don’t believe a single word. It’snot for people who threw all their dreams away in the name of revenge.
Eyeing me cautiously, Viktor nods. “Okay. I’ll join you soon.”
No rush.
I think I need to be alone for a minute and do my affirmations anyway.
Not letting them out these past few days has left them to fester inside me.
And I don’t like the person I am when I can’t get the sludge out of my head.
Chapter 10
?
Spare me the sob stories.
Crisis
I hate my characters for all the ways they look like me. I hate my plot for all the ways I plucked it out of the cesspool of my knowledge onwhat sells these days. I hate the rough lines and choppy sentences. I hate everything about every motivation behind what I’m doing right now.
