Page 28 of Wolfish Player
Their work spans nearly every genre imaginable, and the sales rival even John Grisham’s and Stephen King’s.
“What comes to mind when you think of this author?” he asks.
“That he probably has a stable full of ghostwriters,” I say. “There’s no way he publishes this damn fast.”
“Or maybe he plants his ass in a chair for a set amount of hours a day and writes like a professional author.”
“His ghostwriters probably plant their asses down, too.”
“Two thousand words a day—” He doesn’t entertain my theory—“for thirty days comes to sixty thousand words a month. But he happens to write five thousand a day, so you do the math.”
“Oh…” I bite my tongue, unable to say anything else.
“Your books tend to be on the shorter side—a la fifty thousand words for a novel and twenty thousand for your novellas, correct?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“So, is there any reason why you haven’t been able to sit down and write at least five hundred words a day since you signed for your book deal?”
“When you break it down like that, it sounds a lot easier than it is…”
He crosses his arms.
“It takes a lot more than just sitting to write a book,” I say. “I need inspiration, and I have to feel like it.”
“Do you think doctors feel like going to work every day?”
“Yes…”
“Doyoufeel like coming here to work every day?”
“Hell no.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because I have to.” I shrug. “It’s my livelihood at this point.”
“Exactly.” He pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit.
I pull my tablet from my purse—prepared to take down notes about upcoming book campaigns—but he lifts it from my hands.
Then he opens the side drawer and pulls out a laptop.
An intern slips into the room and sets down a steamy cup of coffee on the desk before walking over to the windows and pulling back the drapes—giving me a view of rainy Manhattan.
“You’ve got until lunch,” he says. “For the rest of this month, you’re going to come in here at four in the morning and write. And you’re going to check in with Gloria in editorial and give her daily updates.”
“What?”
“I’m not repeating myself,” he says. “Write, so you can finish this story for me. Then you can finish the one you owe me.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“You’re talented as hell, Heather,” he says, his voice slightly softening, “and I think this is a better use of your time while you’re here.”
I swallow. That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever heard from him, and I hate that it almost makes me want to prove him right.
He approaches the door, and as if he can’t help himself, he looks over his shoulder.
