Chapter 13

FOUR MONTHS UNTIL “I DO”

Inhale confidence. Exhale doubt.

Maybe meditative breathing would help shake me out of my writer’s block. Nothing else had so far. I stared at the empty screen. C’mon, muse. Where are you? I’d come to Ground Support, my favorite coffee shop and go-to writing haunt, straight from the office, determined to write some words. I ordered my usual vanilla latte, shook out my wrists in preparation for a long stretch of typing, and waited. My butt had been seated in the chair for twenty minutes, yet I hadn’t typed a single letter on the page. My idea well was bone dry. In fact, I hadn’t written a word since I’d had my call with Felicia the week before. She wasn’t on board with my synopsis. A romantic comedy wasn’t the appropriate platform to comment on abortion rights or women’s reproductive health rights in general. I’d confessed I was trying to appease those readers craving a pinch of salt with their sweet, but once again, my attempt to add depth was an epic fail.

Felicia voiced concern I lacked a solid understanding of my brand, which even though I’d only published one novel so far, I’d been building since my first review on Pastel Is the New Black. She urged me to get back to my roots, trust my gut, and stop reading my reviews. I’d get back to my lost roots if I could only relocate them. For the first time in my life, I was too paralyzed to write.

I took a sip of my latte and minimized the document on my screen. Sometimes inspiration struck when you weren’t searching for it. What better way to fool my muse into action by distracting myself with emails?

When the page opened on my screen, I sucked in my breath. There was only one new message in my inbox—from Melina. In all the time I’d been waiting for her to get back to me about the extension, I lived by the mantra, no news is good news. For better or worse, the scoop had been dropped on my virtual doorstep.

  

Dear Kim,

I apologize for the delay in getting back to you. I reached out to production regarding your request to push back your deadline and just heard back now. Unfortunately, the way the release schedule is set up, there is no leeway with respect to delivery dates.

I’m sorry, Kim. I wish there was something I could do. Hopefully, you’ve made significant progress on the updated synopsis since we last spoke and the point is moot. I look forward to reading it soon.

Take care,

Melina

  

I lay my head on my keyboard, not caring if I’d get pastry crumbs in my hair or if any of the other patrons thought I’d passed out. That was that—the December deadline to deliver the manuscript—now five months away and a month after my wedding—was non-negotiable.

I was in desperate need of inspiration. It was time to call in reinforcements. I closed down my computer and walked to Three Lives and Company, an independent bookstore in the neighborhood. The moment I stepped through the bright red door and into the tiny space overloaded with shelves and tables piled high with books, my tense muscles relaxed. As a sense of calm and safety washed over me, I knew I’d come to the right place.

When I visited bookstores before I was published, I’d often search for books I’d helped promote with Pastel Is the New Black. I delighted in seeing my name in the acknowledgements. When I was hunting for an agent, I also liked to see who represented my favorite authors in the chick lit genre. But mostly, I’d sit in a corner and get lost inside a black hole while I read for hours. I was incapable of leaving a store without purchasing a new novel, even though my e-reader was full of unread books and there hadn’t been space on my physical bookshelf since I was a teenager. I’d never thrown a book out. The few times I donated a bag of used novels to Goodwill, I choked up. Even though it was for charity, it made my heart hurt to give them away.

Since I’d been published, I hadn’t walked past a bookstore without checking to see if A Blogger’s Life was in stock. It was a longshot, since Three Lives & Co. was a well-curated shop not known for carrying much commercial fiction, but I couldn’t resist. Restraining my natural urge to shop, I ignored the covers taunting me with their intriguing titles in the fiction section and focused on finding the L’s. My fingers touched the spine of a book written by A.L. Long, Heather Long, and then…there it was…A Blogger’s Life by Kim Long. My publisher had skipped the hardcover stage and published directly to trade paperback. Sadie had explained it was because I was a debut author with a young target audience. This was the same reason my first print run was only 7,500 copies. My publisher was trying to minimize their risk. As long as my book was in a bookstore—a dream come true—the format didn’t matter to me. Especially since Hannah’s books also went straight to paperback. I knew it shouldn’t matter, but I couldn’t help but make the comparison. I was also positive if one of Hannah’s books came out in hardcover, I’d never hear the end of it.

I removed the book from the shelf, marveled at the pretty illustrated cover atop a pale blue background, and hugged it to my chest. Then I opened to a random page and breathed in the contents. There was nothing like the smell of a real book—a special mix of chemicals with a hint of vanilla—and I swore mine smelled better than any other book I’d ever sniffed. And I’d sniffed plenty.

Ever since I could hold a pencil, I’d been scribbling stories. I started my first novel at fifteen years old and many more followed from there. I had a nice little collection of chapters one through five for various books living a quiet existence in a storage facility in Brooklyn. I always burnt out, or more accurately, gave up before I finished. I feared my stories were garbage—unworthy of being read by anyone besides me—and a pointless use of my time. But I thought those days were behind me. I’d overcome my inferiority complex and I had a published novel under my belt to prove it. So why was I having such a hard time with Love on Stone Street? Was the root of the problem the book or me? Was I a one-book author? All I had to do was finish the second book. If I didn’t, not only would I be in breach of my two-book contract, but my publishing career might be over. I’d let down Felicia and all the others who’d thrown so much support my way, like Nicholas. I didn’t want to disappoint him or myself. I could do it. I knew I could.

But what if I couldn’t?