10. Reed
Reed
Reed
This is the shittiest book I’ve ever written. Just stupid. Only one day ago, I told Abbie, I think I get better the more I write. Then I produce this fucking pile of garbage.
I power down the Neo and shove away from the table. Outside the window, icicle spears drip from the eaves. The sun’s a blinding glare against all the white. Even as I watch, glops of snow fall from the trees. The warm front must have arrived, exactly as forecasted. Melting everything. And if it keeps up, this time next week, the road will be clear enough for us to leave.
Fucking hell.
I stalk across the cabin. Abbie’s at her easel, working. I should be working. But there’s no goddamn point. The book is shit, my writing is shit, the characters are shit, the whole idea is shit. Fuck it all.
I pace back to the window. My thigh muscle still pulls with every step, though it’s not so painful now. More like the soreness that shows up two days after a brutal workout. I could use an hour in the gym now. I get some of my best thinking done in between sets, when I can just let my brain poke and poke at the story. But pushups might do.
There’s enough room by the table. I drop, do fifty, then lie on the floor. Then fifty more.
I’m about to sprawl out on the floor again when Abbie waves her hand in front of my face. She’s crouching beside me, her eyes dark with concern.
I slide my headphones down.
“Are you okay?” She looks me up and down. “Is this cabin fever? Do you want to go on a hike before it gets too slushy?”
“It’s not cabin fever.” I roll over onto my back. “I’m just…thinking. Trying to work something out.”
“In your story?”
“Yeah.”
“Will it help to talk it out?”
“I don’t know. I never have before.” I scrub my hand over my face. “I just don’t know how to describe something.”
“Do you need the internet to research it first? Can you skip over the description until you get back?”
“No. It’s a necessary part of my main character’s motivation. But I’m having trouble being precise.”
“Well,” she says, settling crosslegged on the floor next to me, “I’m good for bouncing ideas off of, if you want.”
I go up on my elbows and see her gaze dart to where my shirt has ridden up on my stomach. The tip of her tongue touches her upper lip, as if she’s picturing licking or kissing that spot, and that immediately makes me feel better about the whole damn world. “It’s just…love.”
Her widened gaze flies back to my face. “What?”
“In my book. Or not in my books. A few weeks ago, I read a review of my last release?—”
She sucks in a breath. “Even I know not to do that.”
“Normally I wouldn’t. But I’ve followed her blog for a while and our tastes are similar. So when she recommends something, I know I’ll probably like it.”
“Then your book shows up in her feed and you can’t help yourself?”
That’s exactly what happened. “It was actually a good review. Four out of five. And she said that she likes my work in general, but that she’d realized what was missing in all my books—because the main characters are all loners, and although some of them have people they care for and some have others they protect, there’s never anyone in the story that they actually love. And if they have loved, that person’s always gone and grief is all that’s left. But she said at least the grief offers the characters some emotional depth that might otherwise be missing, since they don’t love anyone else within the story.”
“Was she right?”
I nod.
“Well, what are your characters fighting for?”
I run a mental tally of my books. “Let’s see. Survival. Protecting innocents. Revenge. Saving the world. Some of those get doubled up, depending on the story.”
“And your heroes have no family?”
“If they do, they’re always estranged.” I shrug. “I write loners.”
“But if that’s what you’re good at…do you really intend to change what you’re doing based on one review?”
“Not because of the review, but because I think she’s right. My books are missing something.”
Abbie stares off into the distance, as if she’s thinking it over. “But is love really that necessary for a good story?” she finally says. “In Alien , no one loved each other. They were just all friends and colleagues. Even in the second movie, there’s the little girl who stands in for a daughter, but I’m not sure Ripley actually loves her. Cares for her, yes. Feels responsible for her, yes. And maybe there’s love between some of the Marines—like the kind of love that’s between brothers—but if there is, it’s never explored that deeply.”
“I agree it’s not necessary in every story. Maybe not even necessary in six stories.” I glance at the six books on Harris’s shelf, telling her exactly which ones I’m talking about. “But when I think of my own favorites…yeah. It’s there. Sometimes love for a child, sometimes for a romantic partner. One is love for a dog. So I think that my own can be better—and it’ll add that extra danger and emotional punch. I’m not satisfied with just being good enough.”
Especially when I know my work could be something more. When I could be something more. I’d already been considering this, ever since I read that review. But especially after meeting Abbie, it feels even more important. It’s not enough to coast along as I have been.
She regards me, her gaze shining with admiration. “So you want more.”
“Yeah, I want more. Not more money or to sell more, though I wouldn’t cry over that. But just to look at my work and say that it’s better than it was.”
With a glance back at her easel, she says, “I know that feeling very well.”
“You might also know my current feeling of thinking that I’ve created an absolute pile of shit.”
She laughs. “I’m familiar with that, too.”
I lie on the floor again, willing my brain to start working. “I just don’t know how to describe what’s missing. I don’t even think I’ve ever felt it.”
“You’ve never loved anyone? Or felt loved?”
“No.”
“I...” She trails off with a frown. “That’s sad.”
“So are my books, apparently.”
She huffs out a laugh. “What are you doing to fix it? Are you working in a romantic relationship for your main character—or adding a family member? A friend?”
“I gave her a kid. That seems simplest.”
“A kid? Is there anyone in the lover category?”
“He’s already dead. I still need that grief to have any emotional depth,” I say bitterly.
“Did you let that line get to you? Stop it.” She nudges my shoulder. “Change it up and make it a divorce. Make her grieve a relationship, but not the person. Maybe she’s glad to be rid of him.”
“Huh. Divorce is a pretty good idea.” I’m already working that through. “Then I can kill the ex in the sewer scene instead of using the neighbor.”
“Will it have more impact on the heroine that way?”
“Yeah.”
“That sounds like a winner, then. So what else are you struggling with?”
“I suppose it’s the components of how she feels about her kid. And at what point all those components become something called love.”
“Just say she loves the kid.”
“I like to be precise. You love the smell of pine. You also love a cat. The words are the same but they don’t mean the same thing.”
“Ah. You don’t make things easy on yourself.”
“Your work would also be easier if you didn’t bother to get the lighting and shading right.”
“Touché.” She stretches out on the floor next to me, then scoots in to use my shoulder as a pillow. “So how old is the kid?”
“Five. Old enough to hide when I need him out of the way, not old enough to survive on his own. Why?”
“Because the components are different. For a baby or a toddler, there’s not going to be the aspect of friendship that might develop between, say, a teenager and his mother. What about your mom? When you were five—or later—you didn’t feel like she loved you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she did.” I pause as Hot Biscuit Slim decides to join us, ambling up onto my chest. “I don’t recall her being very affectionate. But I also remember my dad telling her not to coddle me. So maybe she tried, and I just don’t remember.”
“And you don’t love your dad?”
“No.”
“Did you ever?”
“I don’t think so. Do you love your mom?”
“Of course. I don’t like her very much, though.”
“That doesn’t make any damn sense to me.”
“I think…those components are just different.” She frowns and absently strokes her hand down Hot Biscuit Slim’s back. The cat jumps off my chest and curls up against my other side—out of her reach. “He’s such an asshole.”
“But you love him.”
“I do.” Her gaze sharpens again. “Probably a lot like people love babies. Because what is there to love? They poop and spit up and eat and cry. But people love their babies anyway. That component is just…it’s adoration, I think. Feeling that this little thing is so perfect, even though it does all these things that would be so irritating if anyone else did it. And even the gross things are also somewhat adorable because the baby—or the cat—is doing them. So I think for a character with a five year old, there’d still be some element of adoration left. Because the kid will have more of a personality to love by then, so genuine affection will start replacing that adoration. Or if not replacing, then growing more equal in weight.”
“That makes sense. What if the kid is a shit?”
“Then she might have to work harder to love him. And there might be more components that are less about love and more about duty and responsibility. Because I think most parents feel an obligation to care for their kids—but there’s a difference between taking care of someone because it’s the right thing to do, and actually caring about someone, so you take care of them out of love.” She tilts her head back to look at me. “Like when I took care of you. It was just my duty as a human being. Now, though, I’d do it because I care about you.” She blinks once, twice, then says in a rush, “Not that I?—”
“Love me?”
“No.” Her face flushes.
“It’s probably too soon.”
“For sure.”
I look up at the ceiling and grin. Because she cares about me. And I fucking adore her. “What if I wanted to write a character falling in love? What’s the difference there?”
She purses her lips as she considers. “I actually think that romantic love is like…okay, here’s familial love”—she draws a vertical line in the air—“and next to it is friendship, and then on the other side of friendship is romantic love. And there’s sometimes overlap between familial love and friendship, especially as children get older and they become friends with their parents or siblings. Or it might be like whatever you feel for Harris, if you think of him like a brother.”
“Huh. So maybe I do love someone.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. And romantic love? You put it closer to friendship than family.”
“Because there’s a ton of overlap between friendship and romantic love. I think being in love looks a lot like friendship, but with more components—like adoration, though a more mature version than what you’d feel for a baby. And desire. But not mere lustful desire. Instead it’s a desire to be with that person. Not always in a sexual way.”
“And you’ve had some experience with this?”
“I thought I was in love a few times. Not that it ever lasted. I think because it was missing that friendship overlap. And maybe with years and marriage, there ends up being more overlap with familial love, too. But probably not at the beginning stages. And I think there’s also a component of gratitude when the romantic love is reciprocated? Not in the sense of ‘oh, thank goodness someone loves me,’ but a sense of being glad that specific person loves you? I don’t know, I can’t describe it correctly. And there’s another component that I know is there, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“You’ve done a hell of a lot better putting your fingers on these components than I could have. Thank you for that.”
“Did it help?”
“It does.” A lot more than she knows. “Though I still don’t understand the loving but not liking thing with your mom. You’re saying you’ve got familial love with no friendship overlap?”
“ Zero friendship overlap, yes.”
“But there’s also a hefty dose of obligation and duty tied up with familial love.”
She sighs and nods.
“And sometimes love is the source of that duty and obligation—like when you care about someone—but sometimes it’s just plain old duty because of familial bonds and human decency. Not actually love.”
Abbie goes real quiet. And when she says, “Yeah,” her voice wavers.
Then that’s enough of this. I kiss her, then haul her up and carry her to the bed, where I get real busy with my mouth and hands.
I feel a whole lot better when I tackle my chapter again after dinner, and the book already seems less shitty. I close the file feeling pleased with how much stronger it all is, dump my headphones and look for Abbie. She’s standing by the sink washing her paintbrushes.
She tilts her head toward the easel. “I’m done if you want to look.”
Hell yes, I do. I head over and she joins me, standing back to eye it critically while I get in close. “I knew you were adding a tail,” I say after a second. “But I didn’t expect that showing just the tip would convey how big the monster is. It’s obviously huge. You don’t show that. Yet somehow I know it is. You’re fucking incredible.”
“Should I rename it ‘Just the Tip’?”
Deflecting again. Because she doesn’t know what to do with a genuine compliment. I want to wring Angela Walker’s skinny fucking neck.
“You can sell it to me.” Her face goes pink and I stand back with her, taking in the whole. “For someone who doesn’t like fiction… this is fiction. Just in a visual format.”
“I never said I don’t like fiction. I just don’t read it. But I don’t only watch documentaries. And I love fantasy art. Even fantasy art on fiction books,” she says with an affected shudder. “Sci-fi covers, the covers of pulp magazines. And I like horror movies, too.”
“Now we’re talking. What’s your very favorite?”
“How does someone decide something like that?”
“If it’s playing, you stop and watch it, every time. Even if you come in during the middle or the end.”
“Ah.” Her eyes narrow as she thinks. “ Dog Soldiers . Maybe The Descent .”
“Fuck yeah. You like horror like I like horror: isolated locations, a group fighting for their lives against monsters, no hope of outside help.”
“That’s a fairly accurate summary of my overall preferences. What’s your favorite?”
“ The Thing. ”
She nods. “That’s high on my list, too. And it’s especially appropriate in an isolated and snowbound cabin. Your megafauna zombies—is that kind of like The Thing ?”
“There’s some heavy inspiration. My book ends a little more happily, though.”
“Hey! Spoiler.”
“You can’t be spoiled for a fiction book you’ll never read.”
“Maybe I’ll make an exception.” She stoops down between the armchairs and hauls out Harris’s collection.
Oh shit.
One by one, she begins sorting through them, examining the covers. “You write as Xander Bryant? Not James?”
“Not James.” Though my heart’s thundering, I have to grin at that. “My middle name is Alexander. Bryant is my mother’s maiden name. It was going to be Alex Bryant but my agent said Xander was more memorable. And some other Alex Bryant had already taken the website. But I could get Xander Bryant dot com.”
She laughs and nods. “That truly is the most important thing. So Harris…he brings these out here? Or you do?” she asks, just as she flips open the front cover where I’ve scrawled my signature and a “GO FUCK YOURSELF” to Harris on the title page.
“He does.”
“You haven’t told any of your other friends what you do?”
“Not really, no.”
“You might want to consider dropping the anonymity.” She turns to a back cover. “If you slapped your picture on here, you’d sell more. I’m utterly serious,” she adds when I start laughing.
I shake my head. “Thank you. But no.”
“Can I read one—” She breaks off when I groan. “If you prefer not, I’ll respect that. I know what it’s like not to want to expose a part of yourself.”
“I don’t hesitate for my sake. It’s just…we might be enemies again.”
Her brows arch. “Did we stop?”
“You like having an enemy.” How did I not realize that before?
She lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “It’s fun. Especially now that I don’t despise you.”
“Not at the moment.” I hand her my first book.
She gives me a wondering look before sliding her palm over the front cover, where SHARP LITTLE TEETH is written in big chalked letters. Underneath is the tagline: This family is out for blood.
“I like the layout and the font. Very nice. And the chalkboard as the background—is it about a schoolteacher?” She flips the book around and begins reading aloud from the cover copy before I can answer. “‘There’s something odd about the Walter family. The doting mother. The angelic daughters. The persistent whispers about what happened to the father. But in the remote mountain town of Rocky Point, baseless rumors are always flying—and science teacher Neil Sharpe has more pressing concerns. Still mired in the grief of losing the woman he had hoped to spend his life with’”—she tosses me a laughing glance—“‘now there’s a dangerous new virus sweeping the town. Children are missing classes…or simply missing. Mutilated animals keep appearing on school grounds. The Walter family is the least of Neil’s problems…until one tiny bite changes everything.’”
I cringe all the way through. When she finishes, she continues staring at the back cover—then suddenly chortles.
“Hold up! What is this quote? ‘The horrors persist but so do I’ could be the slogan for Bryant’s grieving Neil Sharpe, who must fight his own demons while locked in a desperate battle against an ancient evil. A brilliant and pulse pounding debut from an exciting new author. What?! I mean, ‘brilliant and pulse pounding’ is great but— ‘The horrors persist’? Is that from the meme with a guinea pig in a pink car? Who is this guy that gave you this quote?”
“He’s actually a big name in horror. Since I was a total unknown, my editor sent it to her other authors, so I was lucky to get that. But…yeah. I never asked about the meme, but I wondered, too.”
“Oh, that’s just the best thing ever.” She wipes her eyes. “I’m going to get it on a T-shirt now. Is the description accurate—this is what’s in the book?”
I stiffen. “Yes.”
“You made us vampires?”
My neck’s so rigid, it feels like my head will break off when I nod.
She begins giggling again.
Relief eases the tension that locked me down. “The real villain is the mother. The girls are just sad and creepy. And the hero’s father is a raging narcissist and serves as the secondary villain—because he was the only one around when Neil’s fiancée was killed in an accident before the story opens.”
“Oooh. Was it really an accident?”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
“Where’s his mother?”
“Long dead. But also accidentally killed.”
“I’m definitely reading this. Is it your first book?”
“Yeah. And I’ll admit it’s a bit rough around the edges. I also think writing it was just…therapy. Or at least cathartic. None of the others have been so close to home. Though there’s always some of me in each book. You’re really going to read it? You don’t have to for my sake.”
“Maybe it’ll be therapy for me, too,” she says quietly, then looks to the stack still on the side table, and suddenly smiles.
“What is it?”
“It’s just, when first saw them here, I thought: horror isn’t exactly the best thing to read out in the woods alone. Yet here I am. About to read one.”
“True. But you’re not alone now, are you?”