Chapter 40
I couldn’t stop reading my own words. I’d written the best book of my career. But it was no longer a fit for Heartware. This
was a bigger romance, twice the maximum word count for my publisher and more deeply layered than the stories they published.
It was the story of two authors who were commissioned to write a book about the same historical figure, each focusing on different
aspects of his life but coming together in the end to create one beautiful story. I found snippets of Southern history that
I enjoyed learning and incorporated them into the book. I got to write history and romance in a contemporary novel. Doing
both did me good. I fell in love with their journey. I fell in love with my words.
It only took me two weeks to type “The End” on the first draft.
Satisfaction filled my soul in a way that I had not felt in a long time. I scrolled back through the document, stopping to
read parts of it and marveling at the writing like I was reading someone else’s work. It needed developmental editing, but
I was certain the bones of the story and the characters were perfect.
I emailed it to Trish, reminding her it was a draft. Right before I was about to take a nap, she called. “This is amazing.”
“You read the entire thing?”
“Of course, and I’m wrecked. I cried three times.”
“You didn’t,” I said, hunting for more validation.
“You have totally found your voice again. When are you sending it to Dana?”
I dropped on the bed. “I don’t know that I am.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not even sure I want to stay in this lane. This was me decompressing on the page.”
“A novel like this is not decompressing. This was you finding a story you wanted to tell.”
“It’s me being inspired by Regina, Gabe, and Ms. Kate. Me being in this cabin,” I insisted.
“Well, either way, I think it’s pretty safe to say your writer’s block is over.”
I was relieved about that. “Yeah, it is.”
“This is beautiful. The love story. The Lowcountry descriptions. The food. But there’s also so much grief on the page, Alex.
You’ve written the kind of romance publishers are looking for.”
“The romance slash trauma,” I chuckled. “I realize that.”
“And what did it take to get you here?” Trish asked.
“Grief on grief,” I said. “I always thought writing would help me to escape from my grief. Bad relationships. Not knowing
my father. And there was always that feeling like there was something I didn’t know about myself that was important.”
“Your ancestry,” Trish said. “Your connection to the land and to people who were literally up the road from where you were
living. Sometimes it matters. For some people it’s a bigger thing than it is for others.”
I felt those words more intensely than I was hearing her, and tears wet my eyes. “I can’t undo this. I can’t shrink this story for Heartware.”
“You must let Dana sell this. She’s going to be shocked when she reads it. I know I am.”
I sighed. I loved it, but once again, I was intimidated by something new. I’d kept myself in a safe little bubble. Stepping
out of it was intimidating, and could I, would I, come up with another big story like this? I wasn’t sure. Was I supposed
to be?
“So aside from this and you making up with Gabe and the wonderful turnout at the church, I have to ask about your mother.”
“I’m taking some time to work through my feelings.”
“Alex, you have to forgive her.”
“I know, but it’s only been a week since everything hit the fan. I don’t have to do it today.”
“What did Joy think about everything?”
“Joy is on a ship, but I emailed her the details. She wrote back . . . lots of shock in her tone, but we can’t speak, you
know, eye to eye until she’s back on land. She knew her father was shady because of what he did to her mother, but I can’t
imagine that she’s not reliving the hurt.”
Trish sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that, but at least you both know everything about what happened.”
“Every horrible thing,” I said. I looked at the stack of papers on my nightstand. “And I have a few pictures of my father.”
Trish’s doorbell rang.
“Ugh! I’m expecting a delivery.” I could hear her chair squeak. “Send this to Dana. She needs a chance to read this.”
I promised to think about it, and we got off the call.
Trish was right. This was a special story. I wasn’t sure when I was writing it, but the more I read it, the more I felt assured
that I had the bones of a breakout novel.
I enjoyed Trish’s feedback, but there was one person’s feedback I wished I could have before I even thought about sending it to Dana.
Beck read everything I’d ever written. She was the voice in my head that pushed my confidence.
Once Beck said it was good, it was good.
But I wasn’t speaking to my mother. I couldn’t reach out to her, not even for this.