Page 9 of Sing it, Sam

“We like to get together every fortnight, depending on everyone’s schedule. Sharing your work for feedback is compulsory. Sometimes we meet more frequently if we’re giving each other beta comments,” Janice says and nods.

Beta what?“Um, sounds fine to me. I’m pretty flexible to meet up,” I say and smile. With my besties Georgie and Megan overseas, and living alone, I have more spare time than ever before.

“First why don’t you tell us a little about yourself and your writing journey so far,” Janice continues. I get the impression she runs the group.

“Um, well, I’m born and bred in Willow Creek. I work as the admin and events coordinator at the nursing home. I’m trying to make a start on my first book. So yeah. That’s why I’m here.”Please help!

“Well done,” Janice says, flicking her ponytail off her shoulder. “Well, I guess we’ll start with me. My pen name is J.C. King, and I write contemporary romance and women’s fiction. I’ve published fifteen books with Carlingford Press. My next contemporary novel,Broadway Beauty,is about to be subbed to my editor.”

“Wow. That’s awesome.” That’s a huge publishing house. And she’s released how many books? Sheesh. I’m in big company.

A woman with long brown and blonde ombré hair flowing from beneath a cream panama hat holds her silver ring-clad hand up. “Hi. I’m Leonie. Only been in Willow Creek for a year. Moved here with my boyfriend, Matt, who’s a partner in the auto repair shop. You might already know him?”

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug and slap on a smile. There are a few young guys who work there.

“Tall, dark hair, with a coloured sleeve on one arm?” she prompts.

Then yes, I know him.Hawt. “Oh, yeah. I do. He did the rego inspection on my ute a few months back.”And yes, I ogled that fine specimen.

“Cool,” Leonie continues. “I help out part-time with the accounts. The rest of my time I write erotic romance. Matt likes to think he’s the inspiration behind all the saucy parts that I write. If you ever see him, please don’t burst his bubble.”

We all laugh.

“Anyway,” Leonie continues, “right now, I’m working on the sequel to my self-published debut novel,Long-Lost Lovers.I’m a little stuck with the words, but I’ll get there.”

“You’ll get there,” the girl beside her says. She fusses at her dark messy hair which flows around the frame of her large navy glasses.

“Guess, I’m next,” she says with soft smile. “I’m Hannah. Single, and happily so. I live in Logan Falls with my four highly strung cats that need more medical attention on any given week than I do.”

Everyone laughs except me. The thought of the unpredictable devilish furballs with their needle-like nails sends a jolt up my spine. The presence of her feline friends rules out my ever taking a visit to her place.

“I’ve published two thrillers and am working on something a little different, a romantic suspense. I was up until three this morning writing, so apologies for not making much of an effort with this,” she says, drawing an imaginary circle with her finger around her face. “I did get out of my pyjamas, though.”

“Cool. Nice to meet you,” I say, and try to shake the image of cats sitting at her feet while she plugs away at her keyboard.

“You forgot to add that you’re a number-oneNew York Timesbest-selling author,” Leonie pipes in.

“Holy crap, that’s awesome. What name do you write under?” I probe, leaning my elbows on the table top.

A rosy hue forms in the apples of Hannah’s cheeks. “H. Vincent. My debut wasAlter-ego.”

I slap my cheeks between my hands. “Oh. My. Freaking. God. I love that book! I couldn’t sleep for a week afterwards. I was listening to every single bump in the night. Any man with a beard I looked at sideways for weeks.”

Hannah laughs and swishes her hand in my direction. “You’re making me blush.”

A powerhouse writer lives in a little town not far from here. Pretty much in the middle of nowhere. I shake my head in disbelief. “I’m sorry, you’re H. Vincent? I’m blown away right now. Can I please hug you? I mean, you are incredible.”

She laughs. We hug it out, and then I sit down and compose myself.

“Sorry. Bit of a fan-girl moment,” I apologise. “That was rude of me.”

I extend my hand across the table to the woman with blonde hair in dreadlocks. She straightens the multi-coloured tassel scarf around her neck and takes my hand in her petite one.

“Britt Love,” she says and smiles. Her diamond nose ring glints from the light above. “Moved here from Adelaide. My cousin Kara convinced me to make a green change and I’m so happy I did. I work part-time in the aromatherapy and candle shop. I write paranormal/erotic-romance. I’ve self-published two books now, and will continue publishing that way because I won’t have someone tell me that my stories don’t fit into a particular genre.”

“Fair enough,” I say as a million thoughts rattle around my brain. I haven’t thought about any of this stuff. I’m writing a romance novel, but exactly what kind of genre will it fit into? Am I going to be able to write sex scenes? I know sex—just not necessarilygoodsex. And definitely not so-stunning-I-wanna-tell-any-girlfriend-who-will-listen sex.

And another thing: self-publishing. How much extra work you have to do to self-publish? Does that make it more expensive? I’ll definitely have to do some research, and this seems like the place to start. A comforting feeling settles in my stomach. There’s a wealth of experience at this table. I know I’ll be able to get some great guidance here.

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