Page 6 of Wolfish Player
“There it is!” I sit up. “We need to send them a deeper personal struggle so I can get more time. What’s deeper than being broke?”
Unfazed, Joanna keeps reading.
“‘Should the author fail to submit acceptable work by the agreed-upon deadlines, the publisher has the right to invoke“breach of contract” as defined in clause 42.5,’” she says. “‘The author will then be responsible for forfeiting the entire sum of the advance, including agent fees, to the publisher.’”
She shoots me a pointed look, and I cover my face with my hands. “Can we tell them my pet died? Isn’t that considered a force majeure?”
“You’ve used that excuse already, and you’ve never even had a pet.”
“Can I borrow yours?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes and shuts the contract. “Nice try.”
No matter how many times we’ve read it aloud tonight, my fate is the same.
Fucked.
Utterly fucked.
“Maybe you should start looking for a job…” Joanna softens her tone, but only slightly. “After your first paycheck, I can ask them to consider your income for the payment plan.”
“I’d need three jobs to make a dent in what I owe them,” I say. “And that’s if I get something that pays halfway decent.”
“You have degrees in marketing and English.” She leans against the desk. “There are companies that would kill for a copywriter or marketing specialist.”
“Give me another option. Please.”
“Okay.” She taps her chin. “Write like hell and self-publish until you can pay them back. Except the book under contract—you can’t touch that for two years.”
“Unless I change the characters and tweak the plot.”
“Let me see the full outline,” she says, holding out her hand. “You do have one, right?”
“Of course.” I reach for my glittery pink notebook and toss it to her. “It’s on the blue-lined pages.”
She flips it open, pulls on her reading glasses, and scans the page.
“Heather, there are three sentences and a bunch of mermaid doodles here.”
“The doodles calm my anxiety whenever I’m storyboarding.”
She snaps the book shut. “I’ll help you start applying for jobs.”
—
TWO & A HALF WEEKS LATER
THE CEO
ADRIAN
“How much would it cost our company if I put a five-year ban on signing self-published authors?”
“Seriously, Adrian?” My younger sister Theresa sighs over the line. “You ask me this question every three months.”
“Remind me of the answer.”
“We’d lose a minimum of fifty million in profit.”
