Page 13 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

I have, of course, read all of them, includingSandcastleSunrise, the book we plotted and were planning to write together. That was possibly the most painful thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve been through natural childbirth.

The entire time I was reading it I kept imagining howIwould have written it and how different, maybe even better, the book would have been if I’d coauthored it. Not that any of the reviewers, even those who didn’t love it, seemed to think there was anything missing.

“I understand she grew up around here. My wife has always been a big fan of hers and I thought I’d stop and see if you had any signed copies.”

I put on “the smile.” I do, in fact, have signed copies. Lauren’s publisher sends me a certain number of each new release, which delights my customers and which I’m very careful not to point out is probably Lauren simply trying to rub her success in my face.

We chitchat a little as he selects then buys signed copies of every one of Lauren’s books that I have on hand, and I think what a nice gesture it is for a man to make toward his wife. I doubt Clay knows my reading taste well enough to choose a book for me. But I do know he’d know not to bring me one of Lauren’s.

“I’ve always believed that you can tell a lot about an author by their characters. Would you agree?”

“I think it varies,” I say honestly. “Especially if an author is prolific.”

“Do you know Lauren James?”

“Mm-hmmm.” My lips purse as if I’ve sucked on a lemon. And I’m nodding for some unknown reason. “We went through school together. We were friends before she moved to New York and all.” I attempt to unpurse my lips, but they’re stuck so I just keep nodding.

“Well, thank you very much.” He takes his box of books and turns.

“Thank you. I hope your wife enjoys them.”

His shoulders flinch slightly but he keeps walking. After he’s gone I manage to get my lips unstuck. The temperature has started dropping, so I close the front door, move back to the counter, and return to the manuscript.

I feel my brow furrow as I try to count up the scenes I still need to write. Maybe five or six. Maybe one final chapter and an epilogue could do it. I won’t really know until I get the words on the page, but still I feel a rush of excitement.

If I bear down and push myself, I could be finished in a matter of days. I imagine the exhilaration of finally typingThe End. The euphoria that will follow. I’ve never done it as an adult, and I’m desperate to prove I can.

But this tiny voice that I recognize as my most insecure self pipes up with,Not so fast. Once you typeThe End, then what?

Lauren

New York City

The best part by far of writing a book is getting to typeThe End. Of course it doesn’t really mean you’re finished.The Endis just the prelude to revisions, which can be anything froma few small tweaks to a gut job. Then come the copyedits, which require you to address any query the copy editor assigned to review the manuscript has noted. (This can be anything from the incorrect day of the week based on their assessment of the timeline that they have taken the time to lay out on an actual calendar, to the questioning of the accent you’ve given your character even though you’re the one who grew up with this accent and they’ve never left Manhattan.) They used to work with red pens, now they make their comments electronically on the manuscript in a little balloon off to the side. After that you’ll proof the galleys, which requires another complete read-through while you look for small typos and mistakes. And don’t even get me started on the regret you sometimes feel over a word choice or a missed opportunity that you can’t go in and fix.

This is why by the time all of these passes are over a lot of authors can’t bear to even look at their creation again. Afterward, when readers start e-mailing about the typos they’ve noticed, I’m always surprised. All I can tell you is it’s not due to laziness or a lack of concern. It’s just that people are not perfect and shit happens.

With a groan I reach for what I’m pretty sure is my fourth cup of coffee, though I know from years of experience that while caffeine can help you stay awake it doesn’t make you more talented or creative any more than alcohol makes you wittier and more entertaining.

My engagement ring sparkles on my finger as I lift the cup to my lips, and I catch myself wondering if it has somehow sucked all my creative energy into it. As if I could blame a beautiful piece of jewelry when it’s clearly what the ring represents that’s thrown me. Between the surprise proposal and my declining sales figures, I’ve barely written a usable paragraph.

Part of the problem is that it’s been three days since wecalled my mother to tell her about the engagement, and I know she’s waiting to hear from me. Only I have a hard time lying to her and given that I’m still processing things, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sound as happy and excited as Ishouldbe.

I write one more sentence then waste another hour waffling. Finally I slap a grin on my face—I’ve read that pretending to be happy can actually produce endorphins that make it so—and pick up the phone.

“Lauren?”

“Hi, Mom!” I say cheerily.

“Hi, darling!” she exclaims back, and I know I need to dial it back a notch. “I can’t stop thinking about your good news.”

“Yeah, it’s really great, isn’t it?” I’m still grinning like a crazy person.

“Yes, it is.” I know that she’s smiling and I suddenly wish we were in the same room. “How are you feeling? Has the excitement simmered down to a dull roar?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I was just so taken by surprise I’m having a hard time sorting it all out.”

“So you’d discussed marriage, but you had no idea he was going to propose that night?”

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