Page 10 of The Write Off

“Extremely.” It’s kind of the truth and I don’t feel the need to elaborate further.

“I keep forgetting that there’s a much bigger picture to keep in mind.”

“Well, of course. It’s the same with most fantasy novels.” I don’t tell him that I’d originally plotted the Primordial series to consist of eight novels before condensing the storylines until they fit into six. The series spans almost a decade and I didn’t want it to feel dragged out.

He’s back to frowning at his desktop screen. “I guess I haven’t read many.”

Excuse me?

“I don’t understand.”

He looks up, one dark brow raised. “You don’t understand what?”

“What you meant by the words that your mind formed and your mouth spoke.”

“This isn’t the genre I typically work in. Bryce said that you were aware of that.”

“Well, get the fire department on the line, because his pants are on fire.” I unfold my legs and push myself up to stand. I place both hands on his desk and lean in. “Are you telling me you’ve never edited a fantasy novel before?”

He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Mild confusion is all I’m reading on his annoyingly handsome face. “Yes, that’s correct.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. My brain is broken. Logan has broken my brain. I start to pace around the small office, letting my inner monologue have free reign with every negative inner thought that’s been just waiting to be heard.

They gave my book to someone who doesn’t understand the genre.

“Rilla?”

They don’t care about it enough to give it a fighting chance.

They are setting me up for failure.

“Rilla?”

Why? Why would they buy my manuscript if they had no intention of having it succeed?

My parents will buy copies. My handful of friends. Everyone will tell me that it’s good. They’ll praise my creativity, my dedication to finishing it.

“Rilla?”

But they won’t mean it. I’ll amount to exactly what everyone has always expected from me: nothing.

I hear Logan talking, but his low voice is drowned out by the static in my ears. I know I should try to understand what he’s saying, but I am too busy trying to keep up with my racing mind. I feel like I’m chasing it, breathlessly like Alice chased the White Rabbit down into Wonderland.

I’m still moving aimlessly around the office until I stop in my tracks. Or I should say, I’m stopped in my tracks. I’ve run into the brick wall that is Logan Carmichael. I stare up at him, his normally stoic expression showing traces of concern.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” I take a step back, putting some much needed distance between us. “No, I’m not okay. Seven years. Seven years I’ve given to this series. I’ve sacrificed my twenties writing novels no one will read. I put my faith in a publisher that promised to take care of my manuscript like it was their firstborn, and what did they do instead? They gave it to a man who not only thinks I’m a mess, but doesn’t know the first thing about fantasy.”

Suddenly, I’m unsteady on my feet. I feel as though the ground might rise up to say “hello.” I wobble my way to the chair and collapse into it.

I need a solution. An escape plan. I could break my contract with them. It might be messy and will likely cost me a lot of money, but it’s better than just letting them steam roll me.

“You heard me?”

I look up and find him perched on the corner of his desk, regarding me. “What?”

“You heard me the day we first met. I was on the phone and I called you a mess.”

---