Chapter 10
Two days later, I haven’t heard from my mother and I consider this a good sign.
She’s aware she won’t be able to consult my fashion choices and she’s moved on.
Now, it’s time to tell my family that soon I’ll be broadcast on national television pretending to be someone else.
I’m going to explain that I’ve written a book and used a pen name.
I don’t expect it to go over well.
Generally, my family isn’t cool about things they don’t understand and I could fill a book with all they don’t know about publishing.
The first person I tell is Sofia. I have no time to build this up, to make it believable.
She knows I’ve finished a novel and I’ve been shopping it.
But that novel, which she’s read, is nothing like Ryan’s book.
Add to that the guilt that pierces me at the lie I’ll be telling and this isn’t easy.
All at once, she learns my book is published and it’s going to be on the morning show.
Fortunately, Sofia knows even less about publishing than I do.
She thought the comedy show about a woman who dropped off her unsolicited manuscript at Simon & Schuster, wound up with a million-dollar deal and a fully funded book tour was something that could really happen until I set her straight.
Sofia gasps at my news. “Is this the one I read, the book about time travel?”
“No, it’s something new.”
She’s only read one of my books because officially that’s all I’ve written.
Since she knows I ghostwrite, she’s always wanted to know how she can read those books.
But she knows better than to ask me for any details.
From time to time, I try to trick people into reading my work by suggesting a Desdemona Hill book I’ve written.
Since Sofia was into vampires for a while, she read a few of my books without realizing it.
She claimed they were good, but “not as good as your book,” which I found hilarious and proof of why we’re told not to let our family be our first readers.
“Finally! I knew it would happen someday,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I’ve had to work to come up with a plausible explanation for why I’d keep something like this from my bestie.
My ride or die since I was a kid. The ghostwriting is one thing, but this wouldn’t make any sense to her.
I do some of my best work and spin a tale of many late nights writing a super-secret project over the last year, and the shock of getting an agent, and a deal.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t say anything sooner, but the publisher asked me not to. It’s kind of like my ghostwriting stuff in that it had to be confidential until it was time to release,” I say, coming the closest I can to the truth.
“But now you wrote it and get credit for it!”
I cringe. “Um, yeah. I’m going to tell Abuelita and Eddie tonight. Wish me luck.”
They think ghostwriting is wrong and unfair but they don’t understand it no matter how many times I try to explain I get paid to do it.
“You wrote a book for someone else?”
“Why can’t they write the book?”
In Desdemona’s case, she’s long been dead, so she can’t very well write them anymore. But ghostwriters are never truly appreciated for all they do.
That evening, the succulent smells of Spanish rice and chicken waft through the air of Abuelita’s modest-sized kitchen.
We’ve been eating for several minutes, when Eddie begins discussing his patients’ horrible flossing habits. He tells us we wouldn’t believe the food he finds in their molars. This is common at our table, where no disgusting subject is off-limits because Eddie has a stomach made out of steel.
Abuelita glares at him. “No talk of teeth at the table!”
I use the opportunity. “I have an announcement to make.”
They both turn to me and I clear my throat.
“No!” Abuelita says, setting her spoon down. “You are not!”
Eddie reaches for his mother’s hand, stilling it. “Tranquila, Mami.”
“She cannot take Chris back!” Abuelita pounds her fist on the table. “I will not have it. Not in my house.”
I shake my head. “Nope, not taking Chris back. He’s still somewhere in South America with the Peace Corps, and I don’t care.”
“Good,” Abuelita says, then mutters several curse words in Spanish under her breath.
“Will you let the girl talk?” Eddie says and then waves at me to take the floor.
“Thanks.” I fold my hands together. “Well, you know how I ghostwrite books for authors?”
Both of them nod.
And so, I lie about everything. How I’ve finally written a book that New York wants, and that I’m sorry I had to keep it a secret all this time.
Unlike Sofia, they don’t wonder why I haven’t told them sooner.
Writing is my thing and something we rarely discuss.
I tell them I’ve written this book under a pen name because it’s unlike the other books I write, and for privacy reasons.
“Many authors do this, you know.”
“I don’t like it,” Abuelita grumbles. “You should be Lucia Milagros Santana and proud of it.”
I sit up straighter. “Don’t worry, I promise my next book will be published as Lucia Santana.”
I know how important it is for my grandmother to have her son’s name live on in me.
“The good news is the book is successful and I’ll make enough royalties to be able to move out of the shed soon.”
Abuelita scowls. “Don’t rush. Save your money and take all the time you need.”
“And also, I’m going to be on a morning show next week, which is exciting. It’s national.”
They glance at each other with a quick nod, and I see the pride flash in their eyes.
I only wish we were actually talking about a book I wrote.
The following Tuesday, I wake and open the app to the streaming network for the morning show, which I’ve been watching religiously since we taped the episode.
Glancing at the screen now, I see the anchor reporting distressing news about the world and weather, so I mute him while I go to the main house and brew myself a single cup of coffee.
Next door, I hop in the shower, and dress for my low-key day.
Ryan has given me the morning off and my plans are to get words down on my Desdemona book.
For the past two weeks I’ve spent so much time with Ryan between research, and becoming Elizabeth, that I haven’t spent enough time on the manuscript due next month.
I’m so close and all of the threads are coming together for one epic showdown between two vampire enemies.
Back in my shed, I try to get into the zone, but first I check my email.
One is from the new editor assigned to me at Blushing Publications, which manages all the Desdemona books. This is the first book we’ve worked on together and from the beginning she’s treated me a bit like a drone, or a bot, even suggesting the way I should rewrite a sentence.
To: theghostwriter@hotmail
From: Dee@BlushingPublications
I was shocked to learn you’ve published a book under the Elizabeth Brogan pen name.
Your contract states you are to let us know ahead of time of any new project with which you’re involved.
You have violated our terms and therefore we’re going to have to let you go.
Send over everything you have, and we’ll take it from here.
Wait. What? No, they’ve misunderstood. They think I actually wrote the book.
I’ve already written three-fourths of the current Desdemona book.
Besides, her information is incorrect. I’m not writing as Elizabeth Brogan.
I’m a ghostwriter, but in reverse. Ryan is the ghostwriter.
I hit reply and began to compose my email when my cell buzzes, my landline rings, and someone knocks on the shed’s door.
All at the same time. I’m not accustomed to this chaos before noon.
A text from Ryan simply reads:
Call me.
Always a man of few words. Ironic since his historical fiction books are huge doorstoppers. I set my cell down, let the landline go to voicemail, and go to the front door because it might be a package. The UPS guy is always confused when Abuelita asks him to deliver it to a shed.
Not a delivery guy. It’s Sofia.
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks?” I say as she slides past me. “What for?”
“It’s official. The book selection! Did you miss it?”
I have missed it. I pick up my phone, then hit rewind until I see the cover of the book appear. Sofia looks over my shoulder.
And there I am in a photo holding the book, smiling into the camera.
The host describes me as a debut author whose book holds a unique premise.
The emotional, heartfelt, and funny book written entirely in the male’s perspective has been praised by early reviewers.
Kirkus Reviews calls it “lyrical” and “soulful.” Publishers Weekly has given it a starred review.
They splice the press junket skillfully and use snippets of the interview in which I’ve talked about the hero. In the end, they use just three minutes of the thirty-minute interview and cut out the part where I nearly fell off the stool.
“I can’t believe you’re not more excited than this,” Sofia says, plopping down on the love seat. “You’re on TV! And you looked great.”
“Thanks. You think I looked okay? Did the camera add ten pounds?”
The smile slides off Sofia’s face. “We’re not going there, chica.”
Then I remember the email and face palm. “It’s not all a bed of roses for me. I just got fired.”
“What? They can’t do that! It’s too late.” She points to the monitor to make her point.
“I mean from my ghostwriting gig. They said some foolishness about violating my contract because I published under a pen name.”
“Well, that’s a bunch of bull. You should be able to do both.”
“I was just getting ready to compose my reply when you came over.”
“Tell them they can’t do that. Plus, they owe you money, don’t they?”
“Yes! For everything I’ve already written. I was supposed to get my last installment on this book when I turn it in.”