“Like so many writers,” continues Kenzo, “I was rocked by the news of Fletch’s death. It’s every writer’s worst fear... aside from dying in obscurity... to leave something unfinished, to die before we hit The End. A painful reminder that time is never on our side. But it also got the cogs in my brain going. No matter what we write, authors don’t exist in a vacuum. We’re influenced by what we see in the real world. Imaginations need ingredients.”
Imaginations need ingredients.For all Eleanor and Holden’s pre-approved language, that bit is his, a short, effective pull quote that will soon make the rounds as a sound bite and a headline.
“I thought it was a brilliant idea, to release Fletch’s final book unfinished.”
A quick look at Holden as he says it.
“But there are two words spinning at the core of every writer’s mind. Two words that propel us, regardless of whether we write fantasy or thriller, sci-fi or YA, romance or horror. Do you know what those two words are?” He surveys the moderator, the crowd.
No one answers.
Kenzo smiles.
“What if.” He spreads his hands. “What if there’s more to it? What if I change one thing? What if I do it differently?What ifis a seed we get to plant, and grow a whole new story, or ending, or world. And while every now and then truth is stranger than fiction, most of the time reality is pretty boring. Fiction is where we get to play God. Where we not only get to askWhat if?, we get to answer. This book”—he raps the cover—“is what happens when a horror writer sees the news and says,What if?”
He sits forward a little.
“So yes, to answer your question, which I’m sure is everyone’s question, I wasabsolutelyinspired by Arthur Fletch’s death—the timing, the nature, the void it left. As horrible as the news was, it was also a perfect premise. A famous author. A private island. An unfinished book. Of course”—he sits back—“I was lucky enough to have the blessing of the late author’s agent, and the approval of his team at Merriweather Press. And the fact is, if I hadn’t written this, someone else would have. I just managed to get there first.”
A tasteful laugh from the crowd.
Kenzo exhales, feels his shoulders loosen a little.
He was careful, of course; he had to be.
It’s a fine line between inspiration and a scandal.
But good writers know how to walk that line.
And Kenzo Gray has always been a good writer.
He might have even been a great one, on his own, before the deal, and the buzz, and the cogs of the marketing machine spinning into motion, spitting out cloth and calling it gold. It’s hard to tell, in this game, when success is ten percent talent and hard work, and the rest is luck. The right eyes on the right story at the right time. Not that he’s ever been bitter. And even if hewere, spite is lighter than people think. It can buoy you, keep you afloat when others drown, if you know how to guard it, call it grit.
If you can weather the storm.
“One last question, before we open it to the crowd,” says the moderator.
Kenzo tenses, just a little, resisting the urge to look to his team. That’s not what they agreed on when they vetted the bookstore. But the moderator only grins and says, “Is there a movie in the works?”
He wilts in relief. Nods. “The rights have been sold,” he admits, batting away the applause, “but Hollywood is even more fickle than publishing. I doubt it will ever get made. And that’s fine with me,” he says, with a rueful grin. “After all, I’m in the book business.”
“Well,” declares the moderator, “I think we have time for a couple of questions.”
Holden gives him a cheery smile. Eleanor cocks a brow that saysDon’t fuck it up. But there’s not much risk. A dozen hands go up, but he recognizes Holden’s new assistant, Eleanor’s nephew, and an older bookseller planted in the crowd.
It’s rigged, he thinks, trying to muster some indignation—but it’s not surprising, is it? When there’s so much at stake. Besides, Kenzo’s behind on his next book and has a red-eye flight to the second city on the tour. If anything, he feels relieved. The way a car must be after struggling down a gravel road, when it finally reaches one that’s paved. How smooth the ground must feel. How nice the ride.
The moderator calls on Holden’s new assistant, a woman in her late twenties.
“What advice would you give to young writers struggling to break out?”
Kenzo studies her. There’s no resemblance, really, beyond the age, the light in her eyes, but still, he looks at her and sees Millie sitting cross-legged on an ottoman, biting her lip. Millie, who wrote three thousand words every single day, just to stay afloat. And he wants to say,This industry doesn’t care how hard you work. It will break you, or you will break yourself. He wants to sayRun.
But he doesn’t. Because this woman, who isn’t Millie, isn’t asking for the truth. She’s just teeing him up for what all writers want—and need—a reason to hope.
“Don’t give up,” says Kenzo. “That’s the only rule you have to follow, whether things are going well or they’re not. The biggest difference between those who make it, and those who don’t, is”—(luck, wealth, a head start, an editor with something to prove, a publisher with money to burn)—“persistence.”
She smiles and thanks him profusely, as if he’s offered truly useful advice instead of something off a motivational poster.
