The Horror Writer #2
“Yeah,” she says, “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way, but at the same time, it’s kind of true.
” She looks around. “I mean, real life is full of chaos, isn’t it?
It’s messy, and unfair. The heroes lose.
The girl doesn’t get the guy. Or maybe she does, and then he breaks her heart and everything goes to shit.
” Millie’s hand goes to her mouth, as if embarrassed by the word.
But it’s nice to see the real girl behind the chipper facade.
“But when I write,” she continues, “I decide who wins. I get to choose what happens to the girl. I can give her the kind of story she deserves.”
Heads bob in agreement, and in the ensuing lull, Malcolm weighs in. “For me, it’s always been a calling.”
Sienna takes a pointed sip. “Nothing to do with fame and glory, then?”
“Well, we all want that,” adds Jaxon, clearly trying to defuse the obvious tension.
Malcolm swirls his latest glass of wine, his lips stained red, the color rising in his cheeks as well. “What about you, Sisi? Why do you do it?”
Sienna hesitates, looking past everyone for a long moment.
“The truth is, I . . . don’t know. It’s something I’ve always loved.
The magic, and the mystery, the alchemy of it all, the way you can build something out of nothing, a shared idea that goes from living in your head to living in everyone else’s.
” She meets Malcolm’s eyes. “But lately . . .” She trails off.
Malcolm’s face has gone from red to white.
The whole room feels taut.
Jaxon looks around. “But lately what?” he asks, clueless. Kenzo steps in.
“What about you, Cate?”
She shifts in her seat, as if she didn’t expect to be asked.
Then: “I do it because of my mum,” she says.
“I was inspired by her passion. Her single-minded dedication to the craft. I’d get up for school, and she’d have been up for hours, writing before work.
She always made time for it. No matter what. ”
She blows out a breath. It’s the most she’s said since they got to the island.
Priscilla leans forward. “Oh, is your mom an author, too?”
Cate’s face falls a little. She shakes her head. “She tried. She really did. At one point, she could have papered our whole flat with the rejection letters. It just never happened for her.”
“She must be so proud, though,” adds Millie. “I mean, you’re with Eleanor Vandenberg. And you’re here! That’s such a huge feat, especially at your age. You must be really good.”
Cate shrinks in the face of praise, and Jaxon rounds on Kenzo.
“Okay champ, you’re up.”
Kenzo raps his fingers on the table. “I think for me, it’s not that deep.”
And it’s not. It probably helps that he’s not in it for the money.
Writing hasn’t made him rich. But he never expected it to. People always say, don’t quit your day job, and he never even considered it. Every full-time author he’s ever met is miserable, in one way or another.
“I like writing,” he goes on, “and I’m pretty good at it . . .”
His publishing career is fine, but that’s because it’s not a career. It’s a passion. Something he still looks forward to, every day.
“Which is nice, because you can be good at lots of things, and not enjoy them. But I enjoy this.”
It makes him happy—it really is that simple.
His parents always encouraged him to make time for things that did, whether that was music, or sports, or this.
His mom hates horror, but she reads everything he writes and comes to his events whenever they’re in town.
His dad is just glad he’s not living at home.
They would have supported him if he wanted to do it full time, they trusted him to make it work, but he likes things the way they are.
And a few times a year, there’s a line of people waiting for him to sign something he made up.
In his head. In his spare time. He can’t believe how lucky he is.
“Plus, I get to kill people, for fun.” He looks straight at Jaxon as he adds, “On paper, of course.”
Priscilla laughs and rises to her feet. “On that note, does anyone want dessert?”
The room descends into yeses and no thanks and too fulls and compliments on the meal, before Malcolm says, “Shall I take a bowl of chili down to the cottage for our esteemed editor?”
“I’ll go!” says Jaxon, a little too eagerly.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” says Priscilla. “Eleanor was pretty clear about the rules. I’d hate for anyone to get disqualified on a technicality.”
“In that case,” says Kenzo, “go ahead, Jaxon.”
Jaxon flashes him a middle finger as he puts his bowl in the sink. “Fine,” he grumbles as Cate breaks out a box of cookies and a gallon of ice cream. “Nothing for the editor, then.” He returns to the table and slumps into his chair. “Mine sucked, anyway.”
“Sucked?” asks Kenzo, noticing the past tense.
A shadow crosses Jaxon’s face. “Sucks,” he says stiffly.
“You said sucked.”
“I said sucks.”
“You’re lucky you’ve only had one,” moans Millie. “I’ve had three, a different one for every book in the trilogy.”
“Okay, editor horror stories, let’s have them,” says Kenzo.
“My latest one leaves me on read—sometimes for days,” says Millie. “And I know for a fact she goes out for cocktails with at least three of her other authors—and they don’t even live in the same city!”
Sienna sighs, and reaches for the nearest wine bottle. “Our editor doesn’t even bother to read our books anymore. He palms them off on his assistant.”
“Mind you,” adds Malcolm. “Young River’s very encouraging. When . . .” He hesitates, as if doing a math problem in his head, before saying, “When they respond.”
“I’ve got you all beat,” says Kenzo, topping off his whisky. “My editor quit in the middle of editing my last novel.”
“Wow, was your book that bad?” murmurs Jaxon.
“Because he sold his own,” Kenzo continues. “For a lot of money.”
A collective groan.
“That’s the worst,” says Millie sympathetically. “Were you jealous?”
Kenzo shrugs. He wasn’t really, he’s never been the jealous type, but the whole table is staring at him, clearly expecting a reaction, so he says, “I mean, it wasn’t ideal.”
Cate chuckles nervously. “And here I thought the hard part would be getting a book deal.”
Everyone laughs.
“Sweet summer child,” says Sienna.
“Is the industry really that bad?”
“You have no idea,” says Jaxon. “You know, I heard most publishers have a list of which authors they’re allowed to spend time on. And if you’re not on the list, you’re fucked.”
“The year I debuted,” says Millie, “I found out the publisher bought four other books exactly like mine, because they figured one of us would sell.” She scowls at the table.
“And one did, but the rest of us were screwed. They never thought about what would happen to the books that didn’t win. They didn’t care.”
“Hedging their bets, I suppose,” muses Malcolm.
“Yeah, well, they gambled with my whole career. They won. And I lost. And then they gaslit me. They made me think it was my fault. That my book wasn’t special enough to cut through the ‘crowded field.’ Despite the fact that they were the ones who crowded it.
They made me feel like I didn’t deserve to succeed. ”
Disposable.
The word Kenzo said in the foyer now hangs like a pall over the room.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Millie,” says Priscilla, “I’m sorry that happened to all of you,” she adds, before turning to Cate.
“But it’s not all bad, I promise. For what it’s worth, my experience has been mostly good.
Obviously the industry has problems—not even getting into being a Black woman in publishing—but I actually really like my editor.
She’s super smart, and knows the market, and helps me figure out what I’m trying to say, even when I’m not sure myself.
” She raps a nail against the table. “A bad editor can be awful. But a good one is worth their weight in gold.”
“How many good ones are there, though?” counters Malcolm.
“Half of them don’t even do the work, and the other half act as if they’re the only reason the books succeed.
” He leans forward to pluck another cookie from the tin.
“Take away the author, and you have nothing. Take away the editor, and you still have a book.”
“Sure,” says Priscilla blithely. “But usually not a good one.”
Malcolm sets his glass down. “Let me guess,” he says, studying Priscilla. “You’re the kind of writer who sends your editor gifts on release day.”
Jaxon balks, but Priscilla only nods. “She works hard.”
“And what does she send you?” asks Sienna.
The romance writer purses her lips. “She doesn’t need to send me anything. Authors get all the credit. It’s our name on the cover.”
“Sure, and we’re the ones who suffer if the books don’t sell,” snaps Malcolm.
Millie looks at Cate, mustering a smile that’s kind, if a little thin. “But maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe you’ll be the one they pick,” says Jaxon. “Write a good enough ending, and you’ll never have to deal with any of this bullshit. You’ll have the keys to the publishing kingdom.”
“And what happens to the rest of us?” asks Sienna softly, almost inaudibly.
But the words land like a blow.
It’s weird how easy it is to forget. To get caught up in the company, the ease of being around other people who understand the push-pull of art and business, the only ones who really know what’s it like, because they’re fighting the same fight, too easy to lose track of the fact that this weekend, they’re fighting against each other.
So much of publishing feels like a zero-sum game—they won, so I don’t—and while, out there, it isn’t always like that—excitement in a genre can open doors, not close them—here and now, it’s actually true.
Only one of them is walking out of here with the prize.
Only one of them can win.
Desperation clouds the air, wafting off the other authors.
And Kenzo might not need it, not like they do, but he wants it all the same.
Suddenly Malcolm stands, an inch of red left in his wineglass, and Kenzo wonders how many times he’s topped it off. One too many, judging by the way he grips the back of Jaxon’s chair for balance as he lifts his glass.
“A toast,” he declares, looking around the table. “To a legend, and a friend, and an illustrious host, the man without whom none of us would be here.” His eyes shine with a mixture of emotion and drink. “To Arthur Fletch.”
The glasses go up, a medley of wine, and scotch, and soda. “To Arthur Fletch,” they echo. Malcolm nods somberly and says, “May he rest in peace.”
He downs the last of his wine. Priscilla takes a tasteful sip. The rest have the glasses halfway to their lips when Kenzo looks down into his drink and says, “Sure . . . if he’s really dead.”