Page 23 of Echo Of A Wolf

“I can understand that. Even though I know it’s not the same, I generally don’t read the genre I write in,” I said. “And I’ll take a fajita bowl, please.”

He turned back toward the fridge and exchanged one of the Tupperware for another, before moving to the microwave. “You’re a writer?”

“Yeah, I’m a ghostwriter for other authors.”

“Ghostwriter?” He pressed some buttons on the microwave and then turned to face me, tossing me a confused look. “How does that work?”

It excited me that he was interested in what I did for a living—that he was interested in learning anything about me at all.

“People—other authors—hire me for a fee to write books for them,” I explained.

“Doesn’t that frustrate you? I mean, you do all the work and they take the credit?”

I shook my head. “Not really. I get paid decently for it. Plus, I find it easier to write for other people.”

“Have you ever tried to write for yourself or as yourself?”

My stomach twisted into knots. I knew where this conversation was headed—he was about to give me a lecture on wasting my talent. I’d heard it before. It was the same thing everyone said whenever I mentioned my career choice. Either they thought I was wasting my talent or what I did was unethical.

“I have books of my own I’ve written. I’ve just never published them.”

“Why not?” he asked as the microwave beeped.

“I don’t want to have to do everything that’s required to be a published author.”

He pulled the first Tupperware from the microwave and stirred it with a fork before handing it to me. Then he placed the second one in the microwave and started it again.

“Like what?” he asked, turning back around to face me.

“Like deciding to publish them myself or hunt for an agent. All the marketing and networking.”

It was a lie. That wasn’t the truthful answer to his question, and my raven bristled because she didn’t like me lying to him about anything.

“Honestly, though,” I said, exhaling slowly. “I’m scared of the criticism that comes with releasing under my name. When it’s under someone else’s, I don’t see the negative reviews or comments.”

“And if it was under yours, you feel like you’d see it?”

“I’d have no choice,” I said. “Readers tag you, email you, and private message you. There’s no way to escape it.”

I’d never told anyone that before.

“What if they don’t say negative things? What if they love your stories instead and reach out to you with praise?” he asked.

I cracked a grin. “I never would have pegged you as an optimist.”

“That’s because I’m not,” he said, a devilish smirk twisting his lips. “I’m a realist. If people are hiring you to ghostwrite for them, I’m willing to bet you have talent, which means you can write a story for yourself readers will enjoy just the same.”

He had a point but putting myself out there still seemed scary. It was easier to hide behind someone else’s name.

“You’re still not liking the idea,” he said, pulling his Tupperware from the microwave. “So, create a pen name and publish under it. It would still be your books, and you’d get to keep all the money they make instead of being paid a one-time flat fee. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

I took a bite of my meal, enjoying the flavor of the spices he’d seasoned the dish with. “It sounds like a good idea, but I don’t have time for marketing my books and everything that goes with it.”

“Hire someone,” he offered as though it were as simple as that.

Maybe it was, though.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, taking another bite. “This is good, by the way.”

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