My mouth twists at the dinner invite, but I try to suppress it with a smile. I can’t imagine anything worse than spending an entire meal making small talk with Louie Longsetter and his wife whothinksshe read one of my books and is an actress, but not really an actress, but kind ofisan actress. I’m already exhausted by the explanation of that, and I haven’t even met the woman.
“Oh, that’s really nice of you,” I say, my smile feeling more forced with every passing second. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll text you if I find some free time?”
There’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but he quickly recovers, nodding. “Of course, of course. You’re here to write, after all. I just thought, you know, if you needed a break or anything ...” His voice trails off, and he gives a little wave. “Well, I’m just down the road if you need me.”
I nod again, tighter this time. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
With another awkward wave, he turns and heads out the door toward the road. I close the door, lean against it for a moment, and stare back into the unnervingly modern space.
The backyard overlooking the lake isn’t west-facing.
I always get a west-facing house for this part of the process. There’s something about watching the sunset that lights a creative fire in me like nothing else. The way the sky burns with hues of orange, pink,and violet pushes me to write with a kind of urgency that feels both exhilarating and necessary.
That’s how it’ssupposedto work, anyway.
But I booked so late this time around, I had to settle for an east-facing backyard view, and I feel the difference in every fiber of my insecure, untalented being. Sunrises just feel harsh and demanding, almost as if they expect too much from me too soon, and that’s how I’m going to start each day here with these massive east-facing windows.
Maybe I could write in the primary bedroom, which is the next room I peek into. There’s a window that faces west behind the bed, but it wouldn’t offer views of the sunset through the dense trees.
“Almost forgot!”
Shit!I spin around at the sound of his voice, a yelp stuck in my throat. I bring my hand up to my chest, startled, but try to keep my anger at bay when I see Louie is standing in the doorway to my bedroom.
He waves a sheet of paper in the air. “Wi-Fi password and such. Forgot to leave the rules.” He sets it on the credenza next to the bedroom door. “Like I said, first guest since the remodel, so I’m sure there’s a thing or two I’m forgetting. Let me know if you have any trouble, or if any of the appliances don’t work, or ...”
“Thank you,” I say sharply. “I can take it from here.”
Louie nods, but half his teeth disappear in what would still be considered a smile on most people, though for him it’s basically a frown. “Break a leg,” he says. “Or ... whatever they say to writers.” He heads back toward the front door. “Break a pen? Break a keyboard?”
He’s still muttering alternative phrases as he closes the door behind him. I hate that he knows who I am and what I’m here for. I shouldn’t have booked under my business email, but I’ve been using it for so long, it would be too much trouble to change it to something that isn’t my author name.
I can’t get away from myself, or my recognizable name, even to a guy who is older than my father and lives in the middle of nowhere. No matter how much I try to hide from being Petra Rose, I’m here. I’m there. I’mevery-fucking-where. On the cover ofPeople, on the home pages ofE! Newsand TMZ, on podcasts with only two thousand followers.
Whatever pays the bills, I guess. I’m sure I’d be doing the exact same thing if the writing didn’t work out when it did.
Hell, I have the following—I should monetize my own platform and start shit-talking myself too. I’d probably make more money bytrashingme thanbeingme.
I always feared this would happen. The loss of anonymity. But I don’t think I ever imagined it happening on this level.
When I first began writing, I did it purely for fun. It was a need. Something I could escape to when my real life got hectic. It was exciting, and readers were excited. I’d write about anything I felt like writing about. Hot MMA fighters, aliens attacking Earth, farmers falling in love with city girls. Seventeen books later, my name was out there and bills were getting paid and life was good. I felt like I was on top of the world.
Unfortunately, gravity pulls everyone back down again. And boy did I fall hard. It was like someone sliced a hole in my parachute and threw my descent on live television for the entire world to see.
Which is why I’m in the predicament I am in. Way too far behind on a deadline, and a house with a past-due mortgage. And the icing on the cake?
Writer’s block.
Chapter Three
Writer’s block can suck a dick.
It’s too dark outside and I am depressed and I have made zero progress. And I am so very hangry.
I’ve harrumphed my way through the last eight hours I’ve been in this cabin, frustrated by anything and everything. I become such a bitch when I’m not able to be productive. It’s why I have to be alone when I write. I’m saving everyone I love from the wrath of me with writer’s block.
I already miss the sunsets from my usual cabin, the slow descent of day, the way dusk allowed for reflection and peaceful contemplation there. But here, without the sunset, it’s as if my inspiration is slipping away with the light, and I’m left grasping at shadows that refuse to form into coherent thoughts.
Yes, I am blaming the sun and lack thereof for my inability to write. Just like I’ve blamed the weather, my digestive health, Mercury in retrograde, caffeine,men.
