Page 3 of SapphicLover69
“January, then.”
“Football bowl games. Listen,” I charged, trying to guide her back on track. “I can come to Orlando to your place. Just book me a few hours on your calendar, please, and explain what you’re doing and how to do it while you’re working on me. It needs to be on Wednesday, the 26th, because I’ll be driving all day Thursday. Don’t worry, I’ll be inside most of the time, so I shouldn’t melt.”
“I can book you on the afternoon of the 26thfrom one to four,” Alice responded in her business tone. “I don’t suppose you plan to pay full price.”
I rolled my eyes and groaned. Hadn’t I done things for her over the years? The time I covered for her when she snuck out to go gallivanting with Ronnie Malone sprung to mind. And just last summer I babysat for her for not a single dime while she and Wilson took a cruise to Cancun. And she wants to charge me for—
“Geez, I’m just kidding,” she huffed in annoyance. “Can’t you take a joke? Of course, I won’t charge you, silly—even if it is my profession. Just don’t write me in as an obnoxious character in one of your books.”
“Never,” I swore in relief, feeling foolish for getting out of sorts. I blamed the emotions of the day for jerking me around. “Thanks.”
“A presenter at a writers’ conference,” Alice repeated admiringly. “You’re really making a go of this, aren’t you?” Before I could respond, she continued. “Now understand, I can’t teach you an entire cosmetology course in three hours, but I can show you how to apply basic makeup.”
“Well, I can slap on powder and blush.” My defense was followed by a moment of silence.
“This is when we need FaceTime,” Alice declared, “so you can see the expression I’m giving you. I presume you want to look like you did for the Read Out, right?”
“Yeah, and could we go shopping so you can help me pick out a few stylish outfits?”
“I’ll take you to the hidden gems where I find designer clothes at regular store prices. Don’t worry, Mary—big sis has ya covered. Now, I have to go. My timer just went off, and Mrs. Garcia wants to be blonde, not bald. Catch you later.”
“Thanks, Alice.”
An hour after receiving the invitation, and still brimming with delight, I set out to compose my reply to Catherine Beech. Bringing up the Literary Laurels website, I clicked on her biography. The headshot portrait was of a handsome, dignified woman with short silver and gray hair and glasses. Her accolades included twenty-four books, ten literary award trophies, notoriety as an LGBTQ activist, having headed several agencies, an award from the mayor of Indianapolis for helping organize the city’s first Pride Parade in 2005, and other business, community, and writing achievements dating back to her college years. It was humbling for me to read. What would articles say about me twenty years from now?
“OK, Furball,” I announced. By then he had made himself comfortable sprawled across the loveseat, trying to obscure every inch of the upholstery with his hairy bulk. “I’m a successful, professional, award-winning, best-selling authorresponding with casual politeness to this totally awesome request to be a presenter. What do I say that’s neither too lavish nor too arrogant?”
Scrunching my brows and pursing my lips, I deliberated and plonked out words. “Thank you for reaching out to me. I am honored to accept your invitation and will prepare a worthy masterclass for authors aspiring to add heat to their romantic scenes. Please reply with guidelines for the presentation, including specifics you’d like me to emphasize or exclude.”
I proofread the lines and thought about what else to say. “Please add me to the schedule and send the relevant information about the exciting four-day event. I was just about to reserve a vendor table. Is it too much trouble to request one near Tammy Fairfield’s?”
OK, wrap this up; it isn’t supposed to be an epic fantasy series.I drummed my fingers on my laptop while conjuring up a closing. I was only a few chapters shy of completing the first draft of my work in progress and simply couldn’t set it aside while I was on a roll, but composing my presentation and creating slides and handouts just became my next priority. Sure, I’d spent twelve years teaching seventh and eighth graders and was comfortable with public speaking, but this was entirely different. I’d seldom hosted speaking events for adults, andme? Teaching other authors? There would be women in my audience far more accomplished and recognized than I was. Would they be judging me? Waiting for me to say something stupid? Smiling and thinking, “Why on earth did Ms. Beech pick that loser when I would have far more meaningful advice to give?”
But I had been invited, so the impeccable Catherine Beech must have seen some potential in me … or at least somebody on the conference staff had.I wonder if I was a second or third choice and the more noteworthy authors couldn’t make it this year?It didn’t matter. This was a tremendous opportunity forme and, being a finalist for three awards, I was bound to place in one of them. Of course, some other authors would be jealous. That was a given. But most of us comprised a family, highly supportive of each other, and I knew Tammy would celebrate with me even if a few turned up their noses at a relative newcomer.
I typed in my concluding paragraph. “Thank you for this wonderful opportunity to share and give back to our community and thank you for blazing a trail for sapphic authors of my generation to follow. I look forward to doing my small part to make this year’s conference the best yet. Sincerely, Aspen Wolfe.”
Relaxing, I reread her letter and my response three times before hitting the send button. Then my phone rang. “Hello?”
“What do you mean you deleted your social media accounts?” scolded an outraged Tammy Fairfield.
I heard her wife’s distinctive British accent in the background. “Who deleted their account?”
“Aspen,” Tammy blew out impatiently.
“I had to,” I insisted in my defense. “You know what’s been going on. SapphicLover69’s rabid stalking got to be too much. I left a stressful job to write because I love it and this crazy person—”
“I know, honey,” Tammy responded with more empathy. “I just hate to see it. Maybe you could let things cool off for a while and come back. You could do the initial thing, like R.B. Taylor and Q.L. Shade. What’s your middle initial?”
A tinge of guilt jabbed me in the gut. Tammy had been helping me out for years, and I considered her a real-life friend. Still, I hadn’t told her my legal name.
“It doesn’t matter,” she forged ahead. “We can call you A.J. Wolfe because it sounds good. I just hate seein’ that friggin’ psycho get the better of you.”
“Thanks. I fought it as long as I could—even talked to a lawyer friend of my dad’s, and he said there just isn’t enough regulation over the internet and, because she’s only run her mouth, I don’t have a legal recourse.”
I had thought about creating a dummy account under a fictitious name, so I could at least rejoin all my groups and mention my books, name them as reading recs, or even post reviews just to keep them relevant. Plus, I’d be having a new release before the conference met in June. But that wouldn’t work either. Suspicions were flying around the sapphic book world because of fake authors—I mean a man writing under a woman’s pen name and pretending to be a woman while infiltrating our groups, authors generating a dozen fake identities to talk up their books and make them appear wildly popular, and old, straight women posting author photos and bios of hot, young lesbians to lure in an audience. And who knows? Maybe some of them or others were using AI to write books under various names. If they were, I knew it was only because they were desperately trying to pay their bills without capitulating and returning to a numbing nine-to-five job.
Some things are simply more important than money—doing what makes me happy and maintaining my integrity are two of them. I wouldn’t stoop to catfishing.
