Page 4 of Story of My Life
“Myreaders.” I gave the bag a resounding shake.
“The readers you’ve ignored? The readers you haven’t bothered responding to? The readers who’ve moved on to reading authors who still publish?”
I snatched the full bag out of her unnecessarily dramatic hands and tied a knot in it. “Seriously, what climbed up your Pelotoned ass today?”
She leveled a stare at me. “Hazel, you used to be one of the best-selling rom-com authors out there.”
“‘Used to be’? You’re mean in that suit.”
“And then you let someone in your head and now look at you.”
I didn’t particularly want to look at me.
“Haze, if you miss this one, you’re out,” Zoey said.
I stuffed a stack of take-out menus I’d used to mop up a spill into the bag while pretending my intestines hadn’t just gone ice-cold.
“They can’t. They wouldn’t. I wrote nine books for them. Seven of them bestsellers. I went on tours for them. Readers still write me emails asking for more books.” At least, they did when I last checked my business email.
“Yeah, well, your publisher is asking for the same thing. The Spring Gate book that you are contractually obligated to write. You know as well as I do that, to a publisher, an author is only as valuable as their next book. And you don’t have one.” She produced another garbage bag, opened the fridge again, and held her breath as she scooped rotten salad mixes and expired condiments into the bag.
I didn’t know how to tell Zoey that Spring Gate was dead to me. That the idea of returning to the series that I’d loved, that had launched my career, made me feel queasy.
Ooh! Maybe my heroine could be a professional cleaner hired by the hero to clean out a dead relative’s farmhouse? It was less disgusting if the slob was someone else, right? Plus then I could weave a whole house makeover into the story to reinforce character growth. I could see her hauling things to a dumpster in an adorable bandana and with smudges of dirt on her cheeks.
“I can’t control the creative process, okay?” I said, reaching for the closest notebook.
Cleaner. Dumpster. Dirt face.This book was practically writing itself.
Zoey peered over the fridge door at me. “If that’s true and you really aren’t going to hit this deadline, then you need to start thinking plan B.”
“And what exactly would plan B be?” I demanded.
“You might want to start working on your résumé.”
I spread my arms wide, daring Zoey to take in my holey shorts, mismatched socks, and rabid bunny slippers. “Do Ilookemployable to you?”
“Not even a little.”
I fisted my hands at my sides. “Fine. I’ll write. Okay?”
She shut the refrigerator. Her forest-green eyes pinned me with a look. “I haven’t heard you laugh in months. Do you even remember how to be funny anymore?”
“I’m fucking hilarious. Just today I got my bathrobe stuck in the elevator door and gave Mrs. Horowitz an eyeful.” Technically it had been over a week ago because it was the last time I’d taken out the trash. But being funny wasn’t about accuracy. It was about timing.
“Are these important?” Zoey held up a fat stack of legal papers with a coffee ring on the top page.
I snatched them out of her hands. “No,” I lied, setting them on top of the refrigerator.
“I’m also hearing murmurs around my office,” she said, changing the subject.
“Maybe it’s haunted?”
Ooh! What about a small-town rom-com with a little bit of paranormal thrown in? Maybe the hero sees ghosts? Or maybe the heroine house cleaner discovers a zombie? Wait. That wasn’t paranormal.
“They’re worried about relevancy.” That dragged me out of my head.
I feigned a good dry heave. “You know I hate that word.”
