Page 9 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
He raised an eyebrow. “Should’ve figured from that hell-bent sprint down the hallway. You’re notsomeone knocking on publishing’s door for the first time. You’ve already skinned your knuckles. And now you’re done knocking—you’ve moved straight to kicking it in.”
I let out a tired laugh. “Exactly.”
“Mind if I read it right now, Bea?”
That question hit me like a slap with a silk glove. Read it? Now? In front of me? All of it?
I managed not to yell, “THAT’LL TAKE SIX HOURS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!” and simply nodded with composed restraint. “Go right ahead.”
Bronson turned the first page, took off the reading glasses hanging from his collar, swapped them for a stronger pair, and began to read. His pupils swept left to right, left to right again, like luxury car windshield wipers. Then they stopped. After just two lines.
He removed the glasses, rubbed his eyes with two fingers, and looked at me. “Bea... you don’t have a knife in that purse, do you? Is that how you cut yourself?”
“No, sir,” I said, suddenly cold-sweating.
“You won’t get mad at what I’m about to say, will you?”
I swallowed. “No, sir.”
“Can I ask you something, Bea?” he said, placing a hand on the blood-marked manuscript like it was a medical report.
“Of course.”
“If someone walked into this room and started playing the piano, how long would it take you to know if they were a professional or an amateur?”
“First few notes.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Exactly. First few notes. You don’t need to hear the whole concerto to tell.”
My spine turned to ice. I already knew where he was going.
“You’re a good writer, Bea. Technically, your notes are right. You don’t hit any wrong ones. But…” He paused, like a food critic delivering the verdict on national television.
“But?”
“They’re academic notes.”
“Academic?” I echoed, like he’d just cursed in church.
“Yes. Precise, correct… but soulless. Your words don’t jump off the page. And I don’t need to read the whole thing to know that. The first few lines are enough.”
I felt myself deflate. And to think I’d spent an entire month on the ending—rewriting it seven times like a maniac. I could’ve just drawn a cartoon dog and gotten the same response.
“Try listening to the opening of a Mozart piece,” he continued. “Then compare it to a chart-topper from today. You see what I mean?”
He paused again. He was good at those pauses—the kind that make you feel slightly guilty, slightly embarrassed,and completely inadequate. Lethal combo.
“You’re good. I mean that. But if you want your words to come alive, to breathe and pulse on the page… you need to stop writing what you think someone like me wants to read. Or a publisher.”
“So what should I do?”
He looked at me with those wise-owl eyes and said gently, “Writeyourstory.”
My story?What story? I spend my days holed up in a room with a typewriter and a wastebasket full of editorial rejection.
He must’ve seen the puzzled, maybe slightly lost look on my face. He smiled and stood.
“You’re good, Bea. And I believe you’ll get there. Eventually.”
