My thanks go out to a man whose work I discovered my first year at uni, and whose career I’ve admired ever since. A man I’ve always thought of as a mentor, long before he became a friend. Arthur Fletch—it’s an honor to walk in your footsteps, and to see my name beside yours.
I’m also endlessly grateful to my editor, and the whole team at [insert current publisher] for helping make [insert winning title] what it is, to the booksellers, for putting it in readers’ hands, and to the readers themselves. After all, without an audience, an author is just a madman, telling himself stories in the dark.
And of course, Sienna. My partner in crime.(Pause for laughter.)She couldn’t be here tonight, but Sisi, my love, Penn Stonely would only be half the man he is without you.
You know, as Arty Fletch is fond of saying,He who holds the pen tells the truth.
And I’ve got the pen, so here’s the truth. I should have won this years ago, for my own work, back when this award meant something, back when it was judged by a panel of legends instead of a jury of our peers, back before it became a bloody popularity contest, and a pc one to boot, but no, we can’t let the most talented author win because he happens to be a straight white
You know, as Arty Fletch is fond of saying,He who holds the pen tells the truth.
Well, I’d like to add that the pen may be mightier than the sword, but they both draw blood
You know, as Arty Fletch is fond of saying,He who holds the pen tells the truth.
And that might be so, but I like to think that lies are far more
[insert closing zinger]
Unfinished draft, EdgarsAcceptanceSpeech.docx, found on Malcolm Buchanan’s desktop
Chapter Four
THE SUN IS OUT, AND THE WINDis up, a buffeting breeze that half drags Sienna down the steps and onto the gravel-lined drive. To one side, the cliff; to another, a path running to the editor’s cottage. She knows it’s firmly off-limits, but the image of Malcolm laying claim to the typewriter and the sheaf of paper rekindles her anger, and the breaking and entering has made her bold.
As she starts across the drive, she builds the argument in her head, concocting what she’ll say, what he’ll say, running the dialogue options the way she does when she’s building a scene, working backward from the crux of the conversation.
More than once she looks over her shoulder, half expecting to see someone watching from one of the castle’s many windows. For some reason she expects it to be Priscilla, arms crossed in pink cashmere. Priscilla, who strikes her as even more of a rule follower, who has somehow assumed the role of parent in the group, despite the fact that she and Sienna are probably around the same age. But the grounds are bare, and the many windows stare back, blank and empty.
As Sienna heads toward the cottage, she finds herself wondering, too, if Eleanor Vandenberg is part of the deal.
No offense toPhil. But he represents Penn Stonely, and come to think of it, she can’t remember the last time she and Malcolm got a message from their agent, let alone saw him in person, but she knows that the few times they’ve met, he directed the entire conversation toward Malcolm, even though he’d signed them as a team.
So actually, yeah, fuck Phil.
Sienna Wood is going to need her own representation.
But first things first. She reaches the cottage, takes a deep breath, runs a hand through her hair—a useless gesture, given the gusting wind—and knocks.
But there’s no answer.
She knocks a second time, and a third, starts to worry that no one’s home. But where else would he be? She slips around the cottage to a window. The glass is old, rippled, and she has to cup her hands and press her face close to see in, and—
Sienna lunges back, surprised to find the editor standing so close. But he didn’t see her. He’s got his back to the window, a pair of headphones clamped over his ears and his head bowed over a stack of paper.
Pages.
The angle and the warped glass make it impossible to see the color, but it’s obvious—someone has already turned in their ending.
Rufus turns, shuffling the pages, and Sienna ducks below the glass, her mouth going dry in a way that has nothing to do with the prospect of being caught and everything to do with the knowledge that while she’s been wasting time with hidden doors, other writers are doing their work. They’refinishing.
She creeps back around to the front of the cottage.
Stands there for one minute, two, willing herself to knock again, and harder this time, but the sun dips behind the clouds, the temperature plunging in its absence, and Sienna, hand frozen halfway to the door, suddenly feels very, very foolish.
What is she doing? Not leaving Malcolm—that part, she knows, is right—but she’s going about the rest of this all wrong.
She shouldn’taskto write alone.
