Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
“Come again?”
“I can maybe swing fifty, but… um… I don’t really have extra money outside of my mortgage and bills for the rest of the year, you know?”
“No, I don’t know, Heather.” She sucks in a breath. “We just went on a week-long trip to Hawaii!”
“That was for writing inspiration.”
“Did you get any?”
“I wrote five new words this morning.”
“Five thousand, you mean?”
“Your use of numbers is triggering my anxiety…”
“You told me you had chapter one finished last month.” She narrows her eyes. “You literally said, ‘Oh my gosh! I’m making so much progress and I just finished chapter one.’”
“No, I said I’d written the words ‘chapter one.’”
“Oh my effin god, Heather…” She sucks in a breath, and I can’t tell if she’s seconds away from yelling or rushing over to strangle me. Probably both.
“How much of your book is actually done, as of today?” She keeps her voice calm. “If I wanted to send a partial to the publisher as a Hail Mary, how many words would I be sending?”
“Seven,” I say. “Not thousand. Just seven.”
Her left eye twitches, and her face reddens by the second. She grabs something I can’t see, and I’m convinced it’ll be classified as a murder weapon days from now.
“So, not only have you not written a goddamn thing in over a year, but you’ve spent your entire advance?”
“No, not all of it… just most of it.”
“On what?”
“My house, remember?” I wave my hand around my living room. “And I bought that expensive Audi you suggested.”
“I did not make you buy an Audi, Heather.”
“You told me not to get the Honda I was looking at…”
“Bullshit.” She shakes her head. “What else?”
“Trips to New York, Vegas, Charlotte, Florida, Costa Rica—”
“I get the point on travel.” She narrows her eyes. “Next category.”
“Lots of paperbacks and hardbacks…” I walk to my home library. “Sprayed pages, special editions… it all adds up, you know?”
“It’s not adding up to your entire advance just yet.”
“New laptops, gym membership, podcast stuff…”
“Did you ever start that podcast?”
“The microphone is still in the box.” My chest aches as the past year flashes by in an expensive blur: dinners at restaurants I’d always dreamt of, first-class flights for me and my family, shopping at places with names I can’t pronounce.
“I can’t believe I’m just now realizing this.” Tears sting my eyes. “How the hell did I not see this before?”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” She exhales. “I’ll help you figure something out.”
“Can the publisher actually do this? Like, legally?”
“It’s not typical, but yes… I’m sure it’s in your contract.”
“Can you come over and help me check for loopholes?” I’m starting to hyperventilate. “And maybe draft a pleading letter for a little more time?”
“I’ll be right there.”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
Sometime around midnight
Joanna’s heels click across my hardwood floor like a death sentence.
My stomach twists tighter with every step until she drops a copy of the contract onto my lap.
“It’s still there,” she says. “Do you want me to read it aloud to you for the fifteenth time, or are we calling it a night?”
“Maybe the sixteenth time will be the charm…”
“‘In the event of non-submission due to force majeure or any applicable personal struggles and events—’” She reads from her copy. “‘The publisher has the right to grant an extension to the author at any time.’”
“There it is!” I sit up. “We need to send them a deeper personal struggle so I can get more time. What’s deeper than being broke?”
Unfazed, Joanna keeps reading.
“‘Should the author fail to submit acceptable work by the agreed-upon deadlines, the publisher has the right to invoke “breach of contract” as defined in clause 42.5,’” she says. “‘The author will then be responsible for forfeiting the entire sum of the advance, including agent fees, to the publisher.’”
She shoots me a pointed look, and I cover my face with my hands. “Can we tell them my pet died? Isn’t that considered a force majeure?”
“You’ve used that excuse already, and you’ve never even had a pet.”
“Can I borrow yours?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes and shuts the contract. “Nice try.”
No matter how many times we’ve read it aloud tonight, my fate is the same.
Fucked.
Utterly fucked.
“Maybe you should start looking for a job…” Joanna softens her tone, but only slightly. “After your first paycheck, I can ask them to consider your income for the payment plan.”
“I’d need three jobs to make a dent in what I owe them,” I say. “And that’s if I get something that pays halfway decent.”
“You have degrees in marketing and English.” She leans against the desk. “There are companies that would kill for a copywriter or marketing specialist.”
“Give me another option. Please.”
“Okay.” She taps her chin. “Write like hell and self-publish until you can pay them back. Except the book under contract—you can’t touch that for two years.”
“Unless I change the characters and tweak the plot.”