Page 3 of Here for a Good Time
Please,I beg through best-friend telepathy. Weneed this.
“I thought you liked those two chapters you started last week.”
“I did, but now I don’t,” I say, feeling as deflated as I sound. This has happened so many times over the last few months that I’m not even particularly sad about throwing those chapters out into the ether. What’s two more chapters anyway? You can’t be precious about killing your darlings if you don’t have any.
The writer’s block started out as any author’s routine case of Book Two-induced Writer’s Block, but now it’s… more. It’s more prominent, more consuming, has transformed into something that alternates between keeping me up in the middle of the night and giving me nightmares when I do manage to fall asleep. But the harder I try to get over it, the worse it gets, like when you try to remember a dream but the more you concentrate, the faster the picture fades away.
Frankly, as absurd as it sounds, it increasingly feels like a moral failing, like I’m not working hard enough, like I’m being flippant with all the opportunities that have landed right at my doorstep. On my worst days, I view it as proof that Igot luckywith my firstbook. That I have only ever had one good book in me, and it’s only downhill from here. If Ireallywanted to, I could follow the steps of my anxious spiral even farther down: my book was the “ethnic” card, the big newspapers needed to throw in a “diverse” book into their Hot Books column, and mine just happened to be pitched at the right time, and of course those white reviewers only wrote good reviews because no one wants to be accused of being a racist. I was never good enough, maybe never even good, period.
“How do you always manage to bully me into doing exactly what you want?” Zwe’s voice snaps me back to the now.
“Hmmm,” I say, swinging my legs on the side of his bed. “By being so funny and charming that you have no choice but to love me. Oh, and by buying this place from our shitty landlord so that we wouldn’t have to keep giving him our money.”
“Nowyou’remy shitty landlord.”
“Excuse me,” I say and get to my feet. “I’m your shitty landlady.”
“Okay, landlady, get some sleep, will ya?” he calls out behind me as I head for the door. “Despite this late-night detour, you still need to be at the store by eleven for the signing! I can’t just reschedule a hundred people!”
Without turning around, I hold up a peace sign above my head. “Yes, boss. Anything for my fans.”
I return to the office with the sole intention of turning off my laptop (itis3A.M. at this point), but I’m feeling too giddy to sleep. Giddy and buoyant and possibly inspired.
So instead, I sit down, open a blank Word document, and set a timer on my phone for fifteen minutes and a mental goal of one hundred words. I can write one hundred words in fifteen minutes, no problem.
The island was—
It was what? Bigger than she imagined? Smaller than she imagined? The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen? Something out of her worst nightmare?
It’s just a first draft,I remind myself, a mantra that has echoed in my brain so often that by this point, the letters are etched into my brain cells.
The island was massive.
I tap my phone screen to see how much time is left, and then wonder if I’d actually set fifteen minutes because apparently I’m down to nine minutes and fifty-three seconds, and counting. There’s no way the only words I wrote in five minutes were “The island was massive.” It would be comical if the embarrassment weren’t so searing that I felt like I was going to disintegrate into ashes. The cursor taunts me with each blink:You. Suck. You. Suck.
I spend the next approximate ten minutes staring at the timer, visualizing an hourglass filled with molasses. Eventually, all four numbers reach zero, the ringing sound goes off, I’m put out of my misery. I don’t bother to save the document, instead closing it and dragging it straight into the trash bin icon at the bottom right of my screen where it can join my other ghosts of drafts past.
I’ve had bouts of writer’s block for as long as I’ve been writing, but it was easier to manage when the stakes were lower and I didn’t even have so much as an agent to send it to, let alone an editor. The most infuriating part, though, is that I know what it’s like to be on the other side of this mountain, how buzzy and exhilarating it feels when the story comes so naturally as you’re typing that the only thing holding you back is the fact that your fingers physically cannot keep up with your brain, that thrill that accompanies the knowledge that you’ve nailed somethingperfectly,whether that’ssomething as small as the last sentence of a chapter or as big as a central plot twist. The high when you reread something you wrote yesterday and you know it’sgood. Even thinking about it now, I miss it so much that my fingers twitch.
In front of my bathroom mirror, before I wash my face, I remove my necklace, a gold chain holding an oval Georgian intaglio seal pendant set in gold. The red seal features an image of Cupid churning butter, the wordsPEU A PEUengraved along the top arch of the oval. It had been a present from Zwe when I signed with my literary agent, meant to serve as a reminder of exactly what it said:Little by little.As he’d put it,Good things take time. Lately, it feels like a taunt. I’ve been churning away at new drafts and yet none of them resemble anything like a finished product. Ayesha, my agent, keeps telling me to take as much time as I need for my next book, but I know my editors aren’t going to wait forever, I know my marketing and publicity teams are hoping that I give them somethingsoonso they can strike while the iron’s hot. Because at some point, the buzz will die out, and I’ll be a has-been.
Last month, another editor at my publishing house contacted Ayesha to ask if she’d pass along an advance copy of a novel coming out at the end of the year by Pim Charoensuk, a “fellow Southeast Asian author.” The book was our publisher’s lead title this year, and even before Ayesha’s email, I’d seen how the hype was already steadily building. It felt like déjà vu—except the last time I’d seen this play out, it had been withmybook. There are few things publishing loves more than a debut novel by a young, undiscovered talent; I should know.
Objectively, Pim Charoensuk, who, judging by her social media presence, is a funny, insightful, smart person, is not my competition. I know this. Objectively, it’s hard enough to be a Brownwoman, especially one from a non-Western country, trying to break into traditional publishing without having another author actively trying to compete with you; I also know this. We don’t have the same agent or editor, our stories are wildly different, she’s a debut, I’m a sophomore. Objectively, I shouldn’t be jealous.
And yet, and yet…
Why are feelings so funny and illogical? And cruel.
It’s far too shameful that I haven’t even told Zwe, although I get the feeling that he knows. It must be obvious via the shift in my tone whenever I bring up Pim’s book, because every time,Ican feel my body tense as though I’m preparing myself for battle. It’s not like she took “my” lead title spot, because I know I’m not entitled to it, and because I don’t have a book this year that could have been in the running for lead title.
But what if?a voice taunts.
But what if I had written faster? What if I’d pushed through all this writer’s block nonsense and finished a draft earlier? What if Pim’s debut is a hit, and she delivers her second book quicker than I can?
After rubbing cleanser onto my skin, I turn the tap in front of me to full blast to drown out my thoughts.
Lately I’ve been listening to that Taylor Swift and Phoebe Bridgers song on repeat, wondering if anyone will still wantmewhen I’m nothing new. Ten years from now, will I be on some snarky listicle titled10 Authors Whose Debut Novels Showcased Literary Excellence, But Everything They Wrote Afterward Sucked?
