Okay, so instead of thinking about how awful it’s going to be to have a meeting with my pushy, annoying publisher and not go back to bed to relax, I need to refocus my perspective.
Maybe something like—I’m so lucky to be a successful enough author to have an agent who harasses me about whether I finished my books during our biweekly virtual meetings…which are completely pointless.
I strip my pajamas off and step under the shower stream, groaning as the piping hot water hits my back. Regardless of my perspective, I still need to go to this meeting and withstand a barrage of stupid questions from my editor.
The memory of Cal in his bespoke suit warning me to behave pops into my mind. At least I’ll have something to look forward to.
2
BOLTON
How the fuck am I supposed to have a positive perspective when my agent asks me the most ridiculous questions?
Like all of our other meetings, this one fell right into the usual song and dance.
“When will you have this draft finished?” Meredith asks as she leans back in her chair. The harsh fluorescent lighting in her office hits every wrinkle and fine line on her face, and I can’t help comparing it to a used, deflated tire.
“I have three more months to finish it,” I politely remind her, just like I have every time she asks me this exact question.
She takes a deep pull of her cigarette, blowing the smoke out of her mouth in an irritated huff. “That’s not as much time as you think it is. Your contemporaries are writing books much?—”
“I’m not my contemporaries,” I snap. “I barely even want to write this book. We should talk to the publisher again. I’m sure they’d love the gay romance ideas I’ve outlined. I even have full manuscripts to give them.”
“Bolton, I’m going to be blunt,” she rasps as she takes another puff of her cigarette.When has she ever not been?“If you want to make the most money and stay relevant in traditional publishing, you’ll stick to writing male/femaleromance. Start an indie pen name if you really want to pursue gay romance, but you’d waste your time. You need to focus on writing as much as you can and as fast as possible, building a backlist for readers to dive into. It’s the best mark–”
I interrupt the same speech she always makes. “You have no authority to tell me what to write. And I sure as hell won’t rush my process and put out shitty books. I’m the writer, and I’ll write whatever I want. If you want to continue being my agent, you’ll get that through your thick skull.”
I didn’t mean to say the last part aloud, but it slipped out and there’s no taking it back now. She freezes for a moment, obviously surprised by my behavior. Usually, I just dance around her questions with vague responses and politeness, but not today. This bitch is Publishing Satan, and I choose to rebuke her fucking nonsense.
Today, Bolton Blue is telling it like it is.
She takes a deep breath, then stubs her cancer stick out.
“You’re under contract with Knightmare Publishing—a powerhouse publisher who expects results. You write in a popular genre, with a lot of up-and-coming competition. The smart move would be to take advantage of your momentum while it lasts.”
“Putting pressure on me is not how I work best. If you continue this behavior, I will get a new agent who can respect my process.” I’m not sure how clearly I have to state it for her to understand. Judging by the frown stretching her smoker’s lines, I think she got the message this time.
Cal would be so proud of me for standing my ground against this wrinkly old hag. He’s been telling me to do this for years, and it feels so good!
“I’m going to write now. Please don’t schedule any further meetings with me unless they’re important,” I instruct herbefore ending the call. May as well go balls to the wall with this newfound confidence.
I squeal so loud that if we had neighbors on our floor, they’d have heard it. I hung up on my agent!Eeeek.
Who even am I? It’s like I woke up today and became this badass bitch who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
I can’t believe I hung up on Meredith fucking Blake.
It’s about time. Good boy.
***The goodest boy
Don’t push it. Get back to writing.
Fine. I guess I won’t send you those pictures I mentioned earlier to celebrate reaching this level of bad-assery. I’ll put my pants back on and write. Talk to you later.
Cal is always so serious. It makes teasing him so much fun. I put my phone on silent, turn on my Christmas Pop playlist, and get to writing. Meredith got one thing right—three months isn’t as long as it seems, especially during the holiday season. Every word counts.
The numbers on my digital clock say it’s three, but that can’t possibly be right. My meeting with Meredith-McSatan ended at nine. How did six hours pass by that quickly? My stomach hate-growls so loud I startle in my seat. I was in the writing zone for so long; I skipped my mid-morning snack and lunch.
