Page 24 of Role Play
“But hey, can I tell you what I pulled off for you? I’m so excited, I’m going to burst.”
“Go for it,” I say.
“You know that signing event in Brooklyn, City Nights and Novels?”
“Vaguely,” I answer. But of course I remember. I’ve applied to the major signing in my own backyard, but they turn me down every single year. The event is hosted by a big PR company called Cupids, which has also rejected me for services three years in a row. That one stings. I’ve been rejected by agents, readers, publishers, you name it. But it hurts a little more when someone you’reoffering to paystill deems you unworthy of their attention.
“An author dropped out last minute, and after a few incessant DMs, I got you a table.” Her grin is so wide I see all of her teeth on display.
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not. That gives us one week to put everything together, but I know we can do it. You just have to see what inventory you have on hand, but even if we don’t have a ton of books to sell, we can still network and rub some elbows.”
My initial shock morphs into excitement.There it is.The little glimmer of hope after the gut punch that was my meeting with Dane yesterday. I slide out of my chair and wrap Daphne up in a rib-crushing hug. “You’re my favorite human on this planet.”
She can’t move her arms because I’m wrapped around her like a python. “Of course I am,” she wheezes out. Her tone returns to normal once I release her. “I know you have dinner with your mom tonight, but how about after we meet up for a drink?”
“She’s sick. She canceled.”
“Oh, babe?—”
“It’s fine,” I insist. “I actually need to go through Ellie’s edits. I do not mind a quiet birthday at home.”
“Working,” Daphne adds.
“But when you love it, it doesn’t feel like work.” Neither of us believes my excuse. Lately, writing feels more exhausting than a ten-hour shift in a coal mine.
“It’s your birthday, Sora. You can’t stay holed up in here doing nothing. I have an idea. How about you come with me? I have a plus-one for the event.”
I squint in her direction. “I thought you basically needed a security clearance to work this wedding. How did a server get a plus-one?”
“Strict on staff, a little loose on the guest list apparently.” She shrugs. “Don’t ask me why, but I’m allowed to bring a guest to the reception. It’s a black-tie affair with a dress code though. Do you still have that Marc Jacobs ball gown?”
“The one that gives me uniboob?”
“Only when you try to wear it with a bandeau. I’ve told you a dozen times, you have to let your girls swim free in that dress.”
I puff a little air into my cheeks and swish it back and forth as I debate. “I don’t know.”
“I do.” Daphne grabs my shoulders and waits until I look up at her. She’s at least five inches taller than me. “You need a life outside these four walls.”
“I think I need to focus. I have to write another book. I’m torpedoing toward the ditch of failure, and I’m not going to be able to climb back out.”
“YoujustfinishedThe Way We Were. How about you take a little breather and do something fun? Maybe a weekend trip?”
The truth is, I’m debating scrapping my next release. Ellie, my editor, who I’ve dubbed “the robot,” has always been tight-lipped with feedback. Her focus is on structure and syntax. But normally I get a few comments sprinkled throughout my manuscript about relatable moments or things that made her giggle. My latest book, all she said was:Here you go.
I emailed her back and asked what she thought of the book. Her reply was even more painful:It’s fine. Also, my rates are going up.
Over one hundred and twenty thousand words where I poured my heart out on the page, and the best she could come up with was,fine.And it’s possible she hated my story so much that she decided she deserves more compensation moving forward. If that’s not an ego check, I don’t know what is.
“I don’t want to have fun, Daph. I want to write a bestseller. I want an agent. I want to stop waking up every day and feeling like I’m sprinting in place.”
“All right, how about this?” Daphne releases me with a long exhale. “Come to the wedding, eat a fancy meal, drink the free booze, then after cleanup, you and I will sit down with pen and paper and I will map out all the tropey reader stuff that makes a bestseller and we’ll stuff your next book chock-full of all the viral crap social media wants.”
“Tropey reader stuff?” I quirk an eyebrow.
“Yeah, we’re talking about two different things, Sora. Being a bestseller and being a talented writer are not the same. Bad books make a ton of money, and some of the best literature of our day and age will die, unread, in obscurity. If you want to go viral, you have to pander to the trends.”
