Page 17 of Death of the Author

“What the hell am I doing?” she muttered, lowering her hand. A man who’d stopped to observe chuckled and then went on his way.

She watched the SUV leave, her heart rate slowing, a sense of normalcy returning to her. And then that relief became euphoria. She could call this cab anytime she needed. She could move herself around without any human’s aid. This SUV would help her—no, it could be like an extensionofher. She could be like a robot with built-in wheels ready to carry her whenever she wanted.

She turned and wheeled up the boardwalk. She smiled to herself, feeling a warmth that emanated from within. “Yeah,” she said. “Just like a robot.”

8

The Beginning

And then...

Zelu was done. She clicked Save, backed up her file to the cloud, and emailed a copy to her third email account. She changed her laptop password toBilbo(a character she loved for his willingness to go on an irrational adventure). Then she dumped her laptop on her bed and just looked at its screen.

She’d finished the first draft ofRusted Robotsa year and a half ago, but it had been a mishmash of fragmented sentences, inconsistencies, junk, nonsense, and some buried brilliance. After letting it breathe for a week, she’d started the editing process, rewriting some sections and polishing others. For months and months she’d worked at it, encouraging it to come together and make something whole, like magnets finding one another.

She’d started writing this book when she was both low and high in Trinidad and Tobago. She’d been fired and rejected, and she’d had nothing. But now she had this; it was a complete thing that lived, exhaled, celebrated. A great big fresh, authentic story. Written by her.

“I did it,” she whispered. She burst into tears. The ending was breathtaking. It was dramatic and poignant and pacey—everything she’d wantedit to be. She looked at her phone, tears still streaming down her cheeks. The screen displayed a pop-up from Msizi’s Yebo app.

Good morning, Zelu. What can I do for you today?

She swiped it and told it to call Msizi. He answered immediately, and that made her want to cry more.

“Lady,” he said.

“Hey,” she answered. “Where are you?”

“Durban. Just got here. You still living with your parents?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he said. “I know you. If you weren’t home, you’d be at some idiot guy’s house.”

She laughed and then sniffled loudly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I finished my novel.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

She let out a huff that was almost a laugh. “I mean, it’s not ‘wrong’... I’m just... oh, I dunno.”

She’d barely finished before he said, “When can I read it?”

“Never.” She laughed. “I’m never letting anyone read it.”

“Okay.”

Silence settled between them, and Zelu reveled in it. She was waiting. She was always waiting with Msizi. Waiting for him to change into a common, boring asshole. She kept giving him a nice runway to launch into it. Like now.

“You will eventually,” he said.

She let out a breath and smiled. Yet again, he’d passed one of her tests.

“Yeah,” she said. “Okay, I’ll send it tomorrow.”

“I’ll start reading the moment it hits my inbox.” There was a sound in the background, someone saying something in a language she couldn’t understand. Probably Zulu, for Msizi said something back in the samelanguage. “Hey, Zelu, I have to go. Send me the novel... and congratulations on finishing. I knew you’d get there.”

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