Page 137 of Role Play
“Yeah. From the hero’s perspective.” I shrug. “I got it back from the editor, and she seemed unamused. I still have to go through her edits, format the book, and ask the cover designer to finalize the files. I’m supposed to publish it by December, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to. I can’t bear to see it fail.”
He gestures forward and we continue to walk as we talk, reaching a small park, deserted at this hour. A single swing moves slightly in the breeze, chains creaking. Dad leads me to a bench, and we sit side by side, breathing like dragons, our breath forming ephemeral white puffs of smoke in the midnight air.
“Can I give you some advice? Author to author?”
“Sure. I’ve only been begging for four years, but better excruciatingly late than never.”
He rolls his eyes, and it comforts me. Like his grumbly annoyance is chicken soup straight to my soul. “A story can’t fail. It exists, so it did its job. Don’t fear the criticism. It’s coming, Sora. It’s as guaranteed as the sunrise and sunset each day. But it means nothing in the grand scheme of things. If you don’t want to publish your story because you feel it isn’t quite right, or you didn’t get to say what you wanted to, delay it. Take your time. Experience every grisly part of being an author—the writing, the rewriting, overcoming doubt, fear, and shame. You have tolet it all in, and give it room to breathe. Every single painful, harrowing part of this experience isnecessary. The best stories are written from broken places.”
I smirk at him. “Broken places? Is that why you kill off all your main characters?” I may not have read Dad’s books. But I’ve read his glowing reviews.
He smiles. “You leave fantasy to the fantasy authors. Death is a necessary part of life. But what I meant is when you start a story from a broken place, it has a funny way of repairing your heart. The best stories come from pain, because they are intended to heal, Sora. That’s the whole point of writing—to heal something.”
I stare at him, this man I’ve spent my life idolizing and resenting in equal measure, suddenly seeing him through new eyes. Behind the impenetrable walls was a broken man, who wrote to mend all the wounds the world gave him.
My eyes water, washing my lashes with tears. “Thank you, Dad. That’s all I ever wanted from you.”
“I tried for so long to protect you from the hell I went through,” he says, his voice softer now, more tender. “But I realize now the best way to protect you isn’t to keep you from the fire. It’s to stand in the fire with you.”
He hands me the book I signed and taps the cover. “This is from your mom’s perspective. And the second one is supposed to be from mine?”
A little embarrassed at his revelation, my answer is small. “Sort of.”
“Do you have any idea how hard this was to read? All my mistakes documented on the page.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. It’s just fiction, and I was convinced you’d never read it?—”
“No, Sora, what I’m saying is that reading my mistakes helps me understand how to fix them. See, I need you to publish booktwo, because I really,reallyneed to know they have a happily-ever-after. That’s what all you romance writers do, right? Rainbows and sunshine at the end?” He gives me a teasing smile.
“Don’t make fun of us,” I say, glowering.
“I’m not. Rainbows and sunshine sound wonderful.”
“I don’t have the ending quite right,” I whisper, my throat tight with unexpected emotion. I run my fingers over the cover, feeling the slight indentations of the spot-glossed title.
“How’s it end?”
“They don’t end up together. They go their separate ways, and find a different kind of happiness. She remarries. He ends up alone.”
Dad shoots me a look. “Yeah, that’s no good.”
“Gee, thanks,” I mutter. “It may not be rainbows and sunshine, but it’s realistic.”
“Maybe I can help you,” he offers. “Let me read it. Let’s write a new ending…together.” He grabs my hand and clutches it tightly in his stiff fingers. “One where he’s forgiven, and by some miracle, his family gives him another chance to make things right. Something that heals.”
I squeeze his hand right back. “You’d do that? I thought you were going to be busy in Hollywood.”
“I’m moving back to New York. I’m leaving the show as a producer.”
“What? But what if they screw up your story? I thought you were there to police them a little.”
He smiles slightly, the expression transforming his face, softening the hard lines. “So they screw it up. They’ll have hell to pay with the die-hard fans, but that’s the director’s battle to fight. As for me? I’m going back to life before success warped everything. They don’t need me hovering over everyone’s shoulder.”
“Wow.” I’m genuinely shocked. Dad has been obsessed with controlling every aspect of the adaptation, treating it like his legacy, his immortality. “I can’t believe you’re choosing to walk away.”
“I’m choosing what matters.” The resolve on his face is determined. Full of confidence in his decision. “Your mother, for one.”
“Mom?” I can’t hide my surprise.
