Chapter 3
The next morning, I have a headache the size of Texas, if Texas multiplied itself overnight times one hundred. My mouth doesn’t feel like it’s filled with cotton, it smells and feels like the place where cotton goes to die.
Last night, Sofia and I may have overdone it with the mojitos. We found a bottle of Absolut Vodka Chris left behind and I felt zero guilt cracking it open.
I let Sofia make her mojitos with his precious vodka, and what was left of it went down the drain.
All those lowered inhibitions reminded me of a couple of things:
I was practically left at the altar!
I have a second job, which might get me out of the shed faster, but I’m still no closer to my dream.
My current life is horrible. I mean, I haven’t asked the universe for much. A place of my own, someone to love. Satisfying work that means something.
All I’ve ever wanted was to be successful. And the funny thing is, I am, but I can’t tell anyone. I can’t brag about the books I’ve written or that one of them made the New York Times list.
Luci Santana can’t seem to write a book worthy of publication.
But Desdemona Hill writes bestsellers. In a way I am Desdemona Hill for all practical purposes, which means I can write bestselling books.
Just seemingly not with the stories I choose to tell.
My own four-hundred-page opus sits in my desk drawer.
I should be dying to get back to revisions, but I find a million excuses to put my own work last.
I’d hoped being around a working author would inspire me.
Maybe I’ll figure out how Ryan does his plotting and characterization.
Maybe I’ll get the key into the big boy’s room.
But so far, he hasn’t let me read anything.
He keeps me at arm’s length, hiding his work like it’s top secret.
It’s only been a week, so I can still hope he will let me into the inner sanctum.
Later that morning after coffee and a shower at the main house, I check my email and find one from Holly.
To: theghostwriter@hotmail
From: inthequerytrenches@yahoo
Subject: chocolate news
Hey, lady! I’m sorry about the rejection, but at least she loved your prose.
Remember that you need a lot of “no’s” to get to one “yes.” Look at me!
I’m sure before long you will get picked up by a publisher.
In the meantime, you know you can write, or you wouldn’t keep getting hired for whatever secret book you’re writing.
At least the wedding is keeping you busy and joyful.
I’m SO excited because I’m officially a finalist in the contest I was telling you about!
They liked it, they liked it, they really liked it!
This means it’s going to three agents, one of whom is my “dream agent.” Was just thinking about you and wondering how revisions are going.
Remember, you can’t ghostwrite forever. You deserve to be recognized for the rock star you are!
How about a zoom session next week? I’m available in the evenings.
xo
Holly
I mentally crack my knuckles and prepare to write more fiction.
To: inthequerytrenches@yahoo
From: theghostwriter@hotmail
Re: chocolate news
That is SO exciting! Am so happy for you.
You’re probably going to be under contract soon.
I’m a little busy lately, what with the wedding, and ghostwriting (which face it, pays the bills).
Last week I picked up a little extra work as a research assistant for a literary author.
I guess he’s kind of well-known in his own circles, so that’s nice.
Maybe I’ll learn something. I don’t think I can do zoom next week but let’s circle back soon.
xo
Luci
I’ve left open the tab of a deep dive on the history of Santa Cruz during the war, which isn’t what Mr. Brady’s asked for, but it’s interesting stuff if he’ll give it half a chance.
I firmly believe he needs a romance to raise the stakes but he won’t listen to me.
Why would he? I’m simply a lowly ghostwriter and research assistant.
In a new search engine tab, this time I type in Ryan’s name.
The page populates with quite a few Ryan Bradys and eventually I find the author.
His boring website comes up listing all his books and awards.
No photos of him, which is probably a mistake.
His looks alone would drive readers to his site.
There are a few videos I find, most of them by readers and other influencers who’ve reviewed his books.
And then I come across a video dated three years ago, which for all intents and purposes is almost buried. It jumps out at me because of its name:
Professor Reveals the Unvarnished Truth About Publishing.
I hit play on a YouTube link to find Ryan speaking at a podium for a conference listed as the New England Guild of Authors.
And damn it all, he’s actually wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches.
For a moment, shock pulses through me. He looks like a different person, sporting a beard of all things.
It definitely makes him look older. He’s not wearing the “man of steel” glasses, but some ugly tortoise shell square ones, and his wavy hair is combed back.
When the video starts, he’s clearly finished a lecture and is taking questions from the audience.
He calls on a young woman who stands, her back to the camera. “Why are your books so depressing? Can’t you ever give us a happily ever after? A little romance wouldn’t hurt, so even if they lose the war, they’ve at least got each other.”
Preach, I want to shout! This is what I’m saying, sister.
“Happily ever after?” Ryan smirks and clears his throat.
“Well, as I believe a respected author once said, if you want happy books, you can find those at your local grocery store. Or the airport shop in the same place you pick up snacks and gum before your flight. Romance, the big bully in the room. Yes, it is a behemoth. But whenever you can find a book for ninety-nine-cents, or free, for God’s sake, you have a publisher or author who doesn’t value their work.
And romance books, as a whole, have devalued the entire publishing industry.
They’ve bastardized lists and destroyed them in some cases.
Sure, they sell a lot, but as we know, what’s popular is often not necessarily what’s well-written. ”
The room thunders with applause. He takes his seat. I’m shocked. Shocked, I tell you! How dare he.
I want to wipe the smug smile off his face!
Mr. Brady might be stuck-up and in his own little world, but this is outrageous.
Thankfully, people who disagree with his elitist opinion, and dare I say misogynist remarks, fill the comment section and find his attitude as revolting as I do.
His comments are clearly against all the female romance authors who dominate the publishing industry.
And when women lead anything, men will find a way to make it seem insignificant.
I’ve been dealing with this attitude since even before my MFA program.
Why don’t you write a real book?
“This is a real book! And this makes me happy!” I shout to no one now. “Because it makes a lot of people very, very happy!”
Well, I obviously can’t work for the professor any longer. He should have been canceled for this but maybe he’s not famous enough in the first place. So, I’ll resign from my position, but not before giving him an earful.
I discovered that my employer feels romance writers have…what was the word he used? Oh yes, bastardized the publishing industry. That one still hurts, like someone hit me with a two by four, then left me in the desert to die of dehydration.
If Ryan thinks I can work for him after hearing the drivel that came out of his flapping jaw, he has another think coming.
Pushing the brain cobwebs away, I try to figure out how best to do this.
My resignation has to make a bold statement.
He has to know why I’m leaving a good paying job that, face it, I need.
It’s a chance for him to learn something.
My quitting will show him (and the world) that money is insignificant when it comes to values and beliefs and I can’t work with him.
No matter how good he looks on the outside, his insides are rotting like a soft brown banana.
I think about texting him but I don’t do well when I rage text.
I sometimes rage write but it’s too easy to say the wrong thing behind the safety of a screen.
Monday, I’ll show up with the proper speech, which I’ll write today.
I’ll give him a point-by-point analysis of how and why he’s so wrong about romance books.
There are testimonials I can quote and speeches I’ve personally heard, like the one Julia Quinn gave at the Romance Writers of America in New York City in 2015.
She told the story of how a mother and daughter were reading one of her regency romance books together, during the mother’s chemo treatments.
The daughter buried her mother with the book.
I was there among all the others who shed tears listening to that speech.
Men just don’t understand what women mean to each other, how our books feed our souls and are connections.
I can’t tell every man, but I can tell the professor and I will.
I go to work on my speech right after my brain wakes up, but I’m interrupted by the phone buzzing.
Ryan. It’s Saturday, but we did say I’d be available and on call for emergencies.
I consider texting him, asking him what he wants.
The phone finally stops ringing. Let him leave a voicemail.
Then it starts ringing again. Still Ryan. Super.
I answer the phone with my raspy “I’m sick” voice. “Hello.”
“It’s me, Ryan Brady, your employer. You sound terrible. Are you okay?”
I roll my eyes, as if he needs an introduction and I need the reminder I’m his subordinate.
“I’m fine. If you need something today, it will have to wait.”