Chapter 2 #2
turned every nook and cranny of James Island into a parking lot.
“So, show me,” I said, reaching toward her with grabby hands.
Expressing pure joy, Trish pulled a book from her bag. It was an advance review copy of her novel that was set to release
in January.
I read the title aloud like I hadn’t said or heard it a thousand times.
“The War Between Them.” My heart warmed.
Trish had eighteen novels under her belt, but this one was special.
“A sweeping story of two women surviving wars on two continents whose worlds collide.” I flipped through the pages and then read the back cover copy as if it were new.
It was not. Trish and I shared everything.
Approved all our copy, stories, covers, and other details.
We did not a thing without each other. And I’d watched her unboxing video on social media, but still it was nice to hold the copy.
“Only you could so beautifully intertwine the French and Haitian revolutions.”
Trish sucked in a dramatic breath. “I’m already getting nervous.”
I shook my head. “Don’t be. The marketing budget is huge.”
Trish sighed and dropped her head in her hands before lifting it again to meet my eyes. “It is today. They could change their
minds and put my money in someone else’s budget.”
“They won’t,” I said, reassuring her. Although I had no idea what that looked like in practice. I didn’t write epic historical
fiction novels. My novels were romances. The kind readers picked up mostly in the supermarket or at Walmart in paperback for
less than seven dollars. One of my books stayed on the shelves for exactly a month. After that, a new book of the same substance
replaced it. “The hardcover of this is going to be beautiful.”
Trish raised a hand to her heart and closed her eyes. “I found out today that it’s going to have sprayed edges.”
I raised my hand to high-five hers, and she met my palm. “You’ve arrived.” I handed the ARC back to her.
“Keep it. I need you to do a giveaway on your page for me.”
Of course. I would help her promote. That’s what we did for each other.
Trish took another sip of her drink. “Enough about me. Let’s hear the ideas.”
We could have done this on the phone, but she had to pass my neighborhood this afternoon on the way to a speaking engagement.
I opened my notebook—slowly, resigned to a face-to-face failure. “Okay, but none of them are good.”
Trish rolled her eyes. “Just run them down.”
I sighed and read the story loglines for each of the three ideas I’d come up with.
She nodded. “Tell me the rest. GMC.”
GMC was goal, motivation, and conflict. Every fiction project had to have it, or the book would fall flat.
There wasn’t much to my notes, but I shared.
“No way you’re this unenthusiastic about these ideas. They all sound solid to me.”
“They all sound familiar, like something I’ve already written.”
Now it was Trish’s turn to sigh. “Alex, if you can’t get something done for Heartware right now, maybe you should try another
genre.”
Try another genre.
Trish and Beck must be in cahoots. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were talking to each other. My phone pinged, and I picked
it up. “Saved from this awful conversation by a text,” I said, looking at the screen. “Valerie reminding me to share that
event on my social media.”
“You forget to put everything on your socials.” Trish turned her phone around. She’d already posted pics of us sitting in
front of our laptops with the hashtags #writerswriting, #writingbutfirstcoffee, and #plottingapageturner, and then she included
both our latest book titles.
I was shocked. “How did you do that so fast?”
“I took a picture and posted some saved hashtags.” She sighed. “Girl, it’s not that hard.”
Not that hard? She had a dancing avatar on the post, trending music, and some other animated thingy happening. “I’m glad you
tagged me. Now I don’t have to spend an hour trying to get my own post right.”
Trish rolled her eyes. “Hopeless.” She reached for the ARC she’d given me and handed me her phone. “Take a pic for me.”
I took one with my phone and hers, and then, because I looked halfway decent, allowed her to take one of me pretending to read it. When we were done with the social media stuff, Trish asked, “So when do you go to the cabin?”
“I’m not sure I’m going.”
“What? Why not?”
I yawned, bored with the cabin conversation. “I have a comfortable setup at home.”
Trish rested her chin in her hand, eyes soft but saying what they had to say. “Home hasn’t exactly been working for you, friend.”
“I know, but I’m feeling lazy about packing.”
“It’s one week. You need like four outfits, underwear, and your toiletries, which are probably half packed from the last time
you traveled. I’m sure there’s a washer and dryer in the spot if it’s ‘luxury.’” She made quotes with her fingers around the
word luxury. “That’s barely a pack.”
I didn’t respond to her sensible words, and my silence was not to be ignored. “What’s really going on, Alex? It’s a free trip.
Who turns that down?”
I thought about the depression stuff I’d read a little while ago. It was me. They were talking about me. I steepled my hands
in front of my lips. Water burned the backs of my eyes.
Trish reached for my hands and squeezed.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re stressed, honey.”
“Everyone has stress, Trish.”
“It’s been a rough couple of years.” Again, Trish knew my backstory, so she was an expert on my business—slightly declining
book sales, the dirty details about my breakup. She continued, “There’s no downside to changing your location for a week.”
I squeezed her hands and leaned forward. “I’ll think about it. If I do, you want to come with?”
Trish pulled her hands from mine and scowled. “It’s adjacent to Caw Caw. Too much marsh and too many bugs and maybe some ghosts.”
I laughed. “You’re silly. How is your writing?”
Trish’s shoulders slumped. “These last ten chapters are wrecking my spirit.” She flipped her wrist and looked at her watch.
“I have to go. Come to the car. I have something for you.”
We packed our things, went out to the parking lot, and slipped into Trish’s SUV. The smooth sound of jazz blasted out through
her elevated speakers before she pushed a button to turn the music off. I always felt like I was at a concert when I was in
Trish’s car. I wished her luxury items came from her book sales. It would give me something to aspire to, but as with most
authors, her advances and royalties would never amount to BMW money. Trish’s income was supplemented by her family’s wealth.
She reached into the back seat for a large shopping bag and handed it to me. I looked in, and my heart swelled. It was a keyboard
that was shaped like an old-fashioned typewriter. She knew I wanted one of these.
“Girl, you are the best.” I held it out, studying the box. “Where did you get this?”
“My mother picked it up . . . for me. But you know I love the one I have.”
I flipped it over and inspected the back of the box. “She’ll be upset you gave it away.”
“She won’t care that I gave it to you.”
My heart smiled. She was right. Her mother loved me, even if I was a writer. She was not a fan of it for her daughter. “I’ll
treasure it always.”
“Leave it in the box until you arrive at the cabin. Make the whole experience new. A complete fresh start might surprise you.”
I nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
“No thinking!” Trish exclaimed. “That’s part of your problem. You’re overthinking.”
She was putting her foot down, and she didn’t often do that. “Okay, I won’t think about it.”
Trish smirked. “Get out of my car.”
I slid off Trish’s buttery seats and back into my own car with not-so-buttery seats. The comfort of my car closed in around
me and appreciation swelled instantly. This ride was neat and paid for.
Before pulling off, Trish lowered her window. “You wanna get on Zoom and sprint later?”
“Yep. I need all the accountability I can get.”
She nodded and drove off with me exiting behind her.
I pulled the lid up on my laptop, and the website pages I had opened earlier were still there. The article about writer’s
block reminded me that I was broken. A funny, but not actually humorous, thing is that I don’t even believe in writer’s block.
People had been asking me questions on panels and in podcast interviews about my writing process my entire career. Writer’s
block always made the list. Up until now, my answer had always been, “I don’t believe in writer’s block. I believe low productivity
is due to health issues or being unprepared or unmotivated.” Now I was eating my words like I’d ordered them off a menu.
Beck entered my office wearing a headscarf and holding a feather duster. Both gave me pause. Beck never covered her hair,