It was early March. The campground didn’t even open to seasonal campers until the first of May, and then to transient campers for the Memorial Day weekend. Rob’s brothers probably wouldn’t start coming up for another month. And even then, it was unlikely Danny would be one of them.
But the resemblance between the brothers was so strong, seeing one of them always made her think of Danny, and she already spent more time thinking about that man than she should. Nothing destroyed contentment more than yearning for something you couldn’t have, according to her mother.
Maybe Kenzie wouldn’t describe herself as content, exactly, but she was resigned to the hand she’d been dealt. More work was what she needed, she told herself. And definitely less yearning.
* * *
“You can’t set your manuscript on fire, Danny.”
Danny Kowalski usually listened to Colby Nicholls because they’d been together since the start of Danny’s career, but his agent was wrong this time. “Sure I can.”
“It’s a long story I don’t want to get into right now, but I’ve smelled a melted down laptop before, and that stench lingers forever.”
“This manuscript is the lingering stench, so I’m going to print it out. Then I’m going to delete the file from the laptop and the cloud, and empty the digital trash cans. Once the paper copy is the only one left, I’m going to put it in my truck, drive the two hours north to the campground I own with my brothers, dump the pages into one of our fire-marshal-approved campfire rings and burn it into ash, legally and with no lingering odors.”
“Clearly, you’ve given this some thought,” Colby said. “Now, how about you put the same amount of thought and problem-solving energy into untangling the end of your book and we’ll both get a good night’s sleep, your editor can stop eating antacids like candy and you’ll get a nice check.”
Danny shook his head, even though his agent couldn’t see him. He’d refused the video portion of the call because his hair was sticking up and he still hadn’t fixed the ancient Red Sox T-shirt he’d somehow put on inside out. “I’m starting over.”
“No.” The barked word actually made him wince due to the tiny speaker being literally in his ear. “Dan, you don’t have time to start over. You didn’t even have time to start over if you’d said this six months ago.”
Danny scrubbed his hands over his face, careful not to dislodge the earphones even though he could practically recite the lecture coming his way from memory. Breach of contract. Lawyers. Returning advance monies already distributed. Reputation.
Potentially the end of his career.
He wasn’t sure how much of a threat the end of his career was since being a writer who couldn’t write had already brought that to a screeching halt.
The money, though. That was an issue. He always made sure he kept a separate rainy day fund for absolute emergencies, but he’d sunk a lot of money into buying the Birch Brook Campground with his brothers. If he didn’t start refillingthatwell, he might have to dip into that rainy day fund because the storm clouds were hovering low on the horizon.
“Listen, Danny,” Colby said when the stern business lecture got no response. “You’ve done this five times. You can do it again. Being this stuck probably means you took a wrong turn in the story somewhere and your subconscious is refusing to move on until you backtrack and fix it. And I’ve been doing this a long time, so I’ll even guess that, at some point, you forced your protagonist to do something against their character to make the plot work and get words on the page.”
“I know.”
“You know it, but you’re still trying to push for what comes next. Look back. Send me what you have and I’ll give you my opinion.”
“I can’t—you know I can’t let anybody read it before the first draft is done. I can’t have other people in it.”
“I know that’s how you work. But…you’re not working.” He could hear the frustration in his agent’s weary sigh. “You’ve gotta have something for me by the end of this month, Danny, even if it’s a super rough draft. There’s no give in that.”
“Okay.” Danny sighed, wanting more than anything to end this phone call. “I want to hear the story of the melted down laptop.”
Colby laughed. “I love that you think you’re the only writer who’s ever wanted to set their book on fire.”
“Okay, so tell me the rest. Did that writer start over and turn in a much better book?”
The derisive snort in response echoed through the earphone. “No. He got drunk, cried, and then the next morning, he pulled the manuscript out of the cloud backup, finished it on a crappy laptop he borrowed from his sister, and then turned it in so he could get a check and buy himself a new laptop.”
“Ouch. You know, I’ve heard some people have warm and fuzzy agents.”
“That’s an industry urban legend. And look, maybe you just need a change of scenery. Check yourself into a nice hotel room. Take some long walks and pamper yourself with room service. Try drinking water that doesn’t have coffee beans run through it for once.” He chuckled. “That was pretty warm and fuzzy.”
Kenzie.
Her name echoed unbidden through Danny’s mind. Casually talking to her about his story woes at her family’s restaurant had gotten him through the first two-thirds of the manuscript. She was a great brainstorming partner, and she was full of keen insights into human behavior.
Kenzie could help him figure it out. Usually he wouldn’t even talk about the story before the first draft was done, but he’d talk to her. Maybe he could even let her read what he had so far. She wasn’t his agent or his editor. There would be no pressure in her opinion.
He needed to go north. It wasn’t a nice hotel room with room service, but it would be a change of scenery.
