Page 8 of Save the Drama for your Mama
Hey, I needed a treat, too.
Or, more brain juice?
Probably both.
Java in hand, I headed down the hallway with the doggie bed under my arm and an eyeball alert for sloshing liquid. Romeo trotted at my heels, and it almost felt like he was trying to get coffee to rain down from heaven.
The plan was to write in the library, which doubled as an office. I glanced around at the wall-to-wall walnut bookshelves, comfortable armchair, and the vintage solid-wood roll top desk my mother had used back when she had penned her popular mystery novels. That had been my favorite room for years.
Sweet memories.
Approaching the reading nook in front of the window, I took a sip of my coffee, then gazed out at the backyard and the treehouse up in the majestic oak tree. I felt at home again, with a renewed sense of purpose, motivated to finish my book, then relax for the rest of the summer.
Settling into the desk chair, I wiggled around on the seat cushion to find my sweet spot. Naturally, that was when my phone rang.
I glanced over and saw my publisher’s name on the screen.
Sal Spitz.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
I held my breath, hoping it wasn’t deadline-related, although I was only fooling myself. Of course, it was going to be.
“What’s the latest on the manuscript?” he asked, his voice a mix of urgency and frustration. “Please tell me it’s finished.”
“I’m still working on it,” I said.
“You're running out of time,” Sal said with a warning tone. “Your fans are already clamoring for the next book.”
“I know . . .”
“You told me you have the vision.”
“I do.”
“Well then, how close are you to finishing the first draft?” he asked.
“I . . . uh . . . need to rework a few things to get it just right,” I said.
Sal sighed. “Look . . . I know things have been tough with the passing of your mom, especially at such a young age, and then having to sort through all that legal mumbo jumbo. And I’m sure the movie deal falling through left a foul taste in your mouth. But you need to buckle down and make it happen, and this is not coming from me.”
“Iwillmake it happen,” I said. “I need another three weeks.”
“That’s cutting it too close for editing and proofreading.”
“What if I give you a pristine first draft?” I asked.
“There’s no way you can guarantee that.”
“I just did,” I said.
He was silent on the other end.
“Sal?” I said.
“I’m here . . . and not liking the direction of this conversation.”
“Come on—it’s three more weeks. This is the last deadline extension, I promise. I’m sure you’ve got a little more wiggle room in there when life gets in the way for authors.”
