Carla Stevenson has published five books. And here she is, telling me my book soundsgreat. Oh my god. I swallow a mouthful of tepid coffee and read her comment again and again, wondering how to reply.
“Thank you so much, Carla! I love your books so much!” No, too fangirl.
“This means a lot to hear, especially coming from you! I’m such a big fan!” Still too fangirl. She’s probably inundated by messages like these ones.
In the end, I settle for a generic “Thank you so much, Carla!” I can’t believe I’m calling her by her first name. Whenever I think of published authors, I think of them in the same way that most people think of celebrities, full names only. Come to think of it, this is probably true for most people. You don’t often hear people saying “Oh yeah, I got Stephen’s latest book.” They say, “I got Stephen King’s latest book.” So for me to call her Carla instead of Carla Stevenson is yet another beautiful reminder of the fact that I’ve made it. I’ve successfully separated myself from the masses, elevated past the hordes of hopefuls to become an actual author.
I stay at my computer all the way until past two in the afternoon, when my stomach finally announces it’s tired of my preoccupation and demands proper nutrition. Reluctantly, I leave the desk, stretching and being surprised by how stiff my back feels. I’ve been at the computer for seven whole hours, and it’s now 2:00 p.m., and still the likes and comments continue coming. I’m up to 527 likes on Twitter and 112 on Instagram. By far the most successful tweet and Instagram post I have ever made.
I eat standing up in the kitchen, my eyes glued to my phone screen as I make myself a sloppy peanut butter sandwich. Five hundred and forty-one likes on Twitter and two new comments. I can’t reply and eat at the same time, so I switch out of the notifications screen, go to myhome screen instead, and begin scrolling. My Twitter algorithm has clocked me as a writer, so as always, it pushes writing-related content to me. There are the usual celebratory posts about getting an agent or finishing a manuscript, and the bleak ones about rejections and rants against “gatekeepers” in traditional publishing.
Today, probably because of my own deal announcement, my eyes automatically pick out the deal announcements. I skim through them, feeling happy for the writers whose dreams have come true while at the same time also feeling secretly smug that none of their books sound as intriguing as mine. I know how delusional this sounds, I know. But isn’t this a secret thought that every author harbors deep down inside? That their writing is the one that sheds light on a universal truth that every other writer has somehow overlooked, that their characters are the most honest, the most relatable? Of course, I would never say that out loud.
Helen Nelson of Nelson Books has acquired ...
. . . the story follows a young woman who . . .
. . . about a magical city that appears only . . .
I like each tweet and congratulate the authors in between bites of sticky PB sandwich. Now that I’m a debut author, I need to get serious about making connections. It pays for me to reach out to my fellow debuts and congratulate them. I continue scrolling.
... Haven Michaela Lee’s debut novel,She Asked for It...
My finger’s already swiping up, the announcement halfway off my screen, when my mind catches up to what my eyes have seen. I freeze, every drop of blood in my body clotting, turning jellylike. No, it must’ve been a mistake. It’s a trick of the light, a soupçon of myimagination, a stuttering of my brain, brought about by too much excitement. She was on my mind, that’s all. She’s always on my mind, that’s the problem. The author’s name will turn out to be Hazel Lee or Hayley Lee or something like that, and I will dislike her for no other reason than that her name reminds me too much of Haven’s.
Every instinct in my body begs me not to scroll down, not to go back to the announcement. I shouldn’t even care. I should move on. I should—
My thumb moves of its own accord, swiping down. The announcement returns to the middle of the screen. And there it is, posted by a Twitter account called @HotPublishingNews.
Haven Michaela Lee’s debutShe Asked for It, following the media frenzy after a junior associate at a law firm comes forward with an allegation of sexual assault against her employer, a well-respected named partner on the brink of becoming a judge, to Virginia Wallace at Wallace Books, in a nine-house auction, in a major deal, for seven figures, for publication in fall 2020, by Rachel Reed at Reed Literary Management (NA). Rights also to Red Line Books (UK), at auction, in a major deal; Paper Factory, at auction, in a significant deal (Germany); Boucher, in a pre-empt, in a six-figure deal (France); Rossi Publication, in a pre-empt, in a six-figure deal (Italy); Costa Publishing, at auction, in a six-figure deal (Brazil).
My mouthful of peanut butter sandwich turns into a lump of cement and sticks in my throat. I cough, or try to, anyway. It lodges there, refusing to budge. I try to swallow, but that doesn’t work either. I realize with sudden, sickening fear, that I am starting to choke. It’s a surreal feeling, choking. Because part of me is internally screaming:Oh my god, I’m choking! But the other part of me is still stuck in normalcy mode, still uncomprehending, still standing there holding my half-eaten sandwich in one hand, wondering where my plate is so I can put it down and resume choking in peace.
Thankfully, the part that’s driven by my survival instincts overrides the second part, making me drop the sandwich. I claw at my throat, my eyes tearing up as I wheeze for breath. What do I do? Within the space of a second, my mind whizzes through several different possible solutions: I run out and knock at Terry’s door so he can do the Heimlich maneuver on me. I push my fingers down my throat and try to gouge the piece of sandwich out. I—
Too late for any of that. I have never once choked before, and what surprises me about all this is how fast everything is happening, how quickly my body seems to be breaking down. Only two to three seconds have passed, but already my lungs feel like they’re on fire, my brain shutting down, my thoughts becoming fuzzy. Random, unimportant thoughts keep stabbing through my head. I’m glad I don’t have a cat who’d eat my face after I die, I think. Then another useless thought: I can’t die, I’m not wearing cute underwear.
Somehow, in the midst of the cacophony in my head, some tiny part of me, the one that refuses to go down without a fight, manages to grab hold of my body and take charge. Before I know what I’m doing, I rush at my kitchen counter and ram myself into it. The overhang slams into my belly, devastatingly hard, and my entire body convulses at the collision. I hurl, and the next second, the congealed bite of peanut butter sandwich flies up my throat and splats onto the floor with a loud thwack. Air rushes into my lungs, and I collapse onto the kitchen tiles, gasping like a fish out of water.
I don’t know how long I remain on the floor, gasping, half crying, half laughing. Dimly, I realize that I’ve wet myself. I’ve heard that people who die by strangulation often wet themselves. Does choking on a peanut butter sandwich count as strangulation? The thought makes me laugh-cry again. Sometime later, I manage to get off the floor andtrudge into the bathroom to clean myself up. Then I go back out and mop up the kitchen. I can’t even look at my half-eaten sandwich, averting eyes as I lift it with the very tips of my fingers, wanting to have as little contact with it as possible. It goes into the trash, along with the blob of chewed-up sandwich that nearly became a murder weapon.
Finally, finally, I am done. My apartment is back to its pristine state, and I am in clean, dry clothes, and there is nothing in my mouth, and I can resume ...
Right. Reading Haven’s deal announcement. The darkness that has whispered at me ever since I read it half an hour ago comes roaring back. The whole reason why I even choked to begin with. How ironic it would’ve been if I’d survived her attacks all of high school only to die now, at the sight of her announcement. How could I have let her get into my head again, after all these years? I’ve done the work, gone to therapy, I journal, I meditate, I even did online hypnotherapy for a while. What more do I need to do to exorcise Haven Lee from my life?
But there she is, in the center of my phone screen, a square-cropped photo of her face on the left-hand corner of the deal announcement. How did I miss it before, when I was scrolling? How weird that my eyes glossed over her photo and landed instead on her name. She looks gorgeous, of course. I have known Haven Lee since she was twelve, and she has never once looked less than fashion magazine ready. Her hair falls over her shoulders in loose dark-brown waves, her large eyes beguiling, her nose straight, with the point coming up ever slightly, making her look pixie-like. Her smile is easy and welcoming, with just the right amount of good-natured wickedness to make you look twice. Good-natured wickedness is Haven’s trademark humor. I don’t know how to describe it, except that talking to her feels like you’re being let into a delicious secret, but at the end of the day, you haven’t actually learned anything bad about anyone; she never gossiped, or at least not with me, and yet you feel like you’ve partaken in something delicious and slightly catty, thus forging a strong bond with her. God, her face isso symmetrical, adheres so strongly to the golden rule, that I could die looking at it. How can such a monster look so beautiful?
Unbidden, the memory of Dani stabs into my mind, spearing through every thought. As always, it comes with a dark wave of guilt and fear so strong that it chokes me. I have worked so hard all these years to block the memory of her because whenever she resurfaces in my mind, it is overwhelming. It brings me to my knees, leaving me unable to function the rest of the day. And I can’t afford to let that happen again.
I close my eyes. “I am okay,” I say out loud, forcing myself to take long, slow breaths. “I am okay. The past is the past, and I am okay.”
The mantra works after a while, and when I open my eyes, I feel more grounded. I’m sorry, Dani, but I have to leave you in the past.
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes from Haven’s photo to her deal announcement. And somehow, her deal announcement is even worse than her perfect face. Key terms jump out at me. “Nine-house auction.” Who the hell has a nine-house auction? What book is so explosively good that nine publishers choose to fight one another over it? In what universe does that happen? Then, of course, the words “seven-figure deal.” It’s not even a “major deal,” which would mean anything over five hundred grand. Oh no, even a major deal isn’t good enough for Haven Lee. In the #writingcommunity, we hopeful writers will often list having a six-figure deal as our ultimate dream. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone dare hope for a seven-figure deal, it’s so unreachable, so rare. And yet here’s Haven, striding into the publishing industry with a unicorn deal.
And not just that, but a major deal in the UK? The UK is known for being extremely tight with advances. Last time I checked, the median UK advance size is about half the US’s, which puts it at around $15,000. And yet, somehow, Haven has managed to get over $500,000 in the UK. And six figures from other territories: Now, that is definitely a rarity. Most of us would only ever be able to dream of selling to foreign territories, and here’s Haven, getting more in foreign countriesthan we’re getting in our home countries. I add up the total amount of money she’s gotten just for this one book alone, and it’s at least $2 million. Two million for one book. And what’s more, the deal report ends with the words “TV/film rights,” which means Haven has a film agent.
I stand there for god knows how long, in the middle of my kitchen, staring at my phone, willing the words in front of me to disappear. Maybe this is all a dream. I pinch my arm, and when that doesn’t prove shocking enough, I give myself a slap. A sharp one, right across my right cheek, hard enough to make my eyes water. That hurt a lot. This is definitely not a dream.
