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I SAT BACK from the laptop and stared at the screen, satisfied that I’d properly moved the scene along, and it was actually going somewhere that would keep me intrigued.
This was one of the tricks I used when working on a writing project. I would try my best never to resolve a scene at the end of a writing session, but rather try to stop writing in the middle of that scene – if possible, at the very height of the tension. If I finished the scene, resolved the issues at hand, then when I sat down to work on the project again, it would be almost like working from scratch. Something I always found extremely challenging.
Also, leaving the scene hanging kept me on the edge of my seat and the back of my mind kept running through all the possibilities of what was going to happen next.
I had no idea what I was going to write next, what exactly was going on with Gwendolyn, except the fact that I was considering toying with inserting a supernatural element into the plot. I’d often done that throughout the series, insinuating some sort of supernatural occurrence, like a haunting, but only to reveal by the outcome of the novel that it had been a series of misunderstandings and misinterpretations of the actual facts. I enjoyed doing that, and my readers seemed to like being teased.
In any case, I was satisfied with what I’d written, and spending the twenty minutes on that scene helped bring my mind completely out of the situation involving Howard, properly allowing my subconscious mind to come up with a “next step.”
As I pushed my chair back from the desk and stood, I knew that my next move would be to find out where Howard worked and head to his office to see if I could gather up any sort of clues about his involvement with these people and how his world intersected with theirs.
I knew that would mean a phone call to Gail to get that information from her. And I was about to pick up the phone and give her a call when the phone rang.
Hesitantly, I reached for it.
“Michael?” I recognized the sweet, timid voice on her first word, but, true to form, she introduced herself as if we hadn’t known each other for years. “This is Anne Lee from Mack Halpin’s office?”
“Hi, Anne. What can I do for you?”
“Mack would kill me if he knew I was calling you, but he’s been pacing around the office for hours, has asked me to cancel all of his appointments, and keeps telling me to call you and check up on your status, then, moments later changing his mind and saying not to call.
He just stepped out for a moment, so I thought I would call to check in. Frankly, I’m really worried about him.”
“Mack is just fine, Anne. You know how he gets.”
“Yes, I know how he gets,” she sighed. “But I’m really worried about his blood pressure lately. His doctor prescribed a new medication for him late last week, and though it seemed to have a positive effect on him, today it’s as if he’s not using his medication at all.”
I thought back to my breakfast with Mack earlier that morning, wondering why I hadn’t picked up on an elevated blood pressure. I started kicking myself for not noticing it, then reminded myself that the symptoms were extremely subtle, even to my heightened senses.
“I didn’t realize his blood pressure was a problem again, Anne.”
Mack, of course, would have flipped his lid if he knew that Anne had confided any part of his health status to me. But it had been at least two novels ago when she warned me not to provoke him if I could help it, being quite concerned for his health. She’d gone on to tell me about her father having died on the job from a stroke – he’d been a very successful business executive, working unreasonably long hours, and had ignored his doctor’s advice to slow it down, modify his lifestyle, or go on any sort of blood pressure medication. She said her father had seen that as a sign of weakness and if other executives learned he was on medication it would put him at a disadvantage.
Anne had explained how difficult it had been for her to convince Mack to go on the medication in the first place. He actually hadn’t taken her request seriously until she’d started to cry. And if there was one thing Mack couldn’t stand, it was a display of emotion. I’m pretty sure that he’d agreed merely to put a stop to the waterworks.
“Oh gee, Mack would crucify me if he knew I was telling you this, Michael.” Anne’s voice got even softer, quieter, as if Mack was in the room with her. “But he’s extremely worried that you’re not going to finish this novel on time. He thinks that your heart just isn’t in it and that you’re off your game, so to speak. He’s terribly worried that you’re not going to deliver the opening scenes of the novel you promised him this morning. He’s gone back to the publisher for three extensions for you already, Michael. He’s worried himself to the bone because he’s certain you’re going to let him down.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m not going to let him down, Anne.”
“Good. Then tell me how many words you’ve written so far.”
“Why?”
“So I can try to alleviate his fear.”
“Er, I’m done, Anne.”
“Done?”
“Yeah. Done, I’m just working on some revisions.”
“You’re lying.”
“Ouch, Anne, that hurts.”
“Sorry, Michael, but I know you’re lying. Shame on you. Mack has been like a father to you, nurturing you, coaching you, helping you along. How can you lie to him like that?”
For a moment I felt like a teenager being lectured by his mother about not listening to his father. It was such a powerful feeling that I could have sworn I felt a pimple or two sprout on my face and became worried that my voice might crack with the next words I spoke.
“I’m sorry, Michael, I don’t mean to nag you, but I can’t let you do this to Mack. He is too kind, too gentle a soul to be put through this.”
Too kind? Too gentle?
I suppressed a laugh. “Mack? Gentle?”
She certainly couldn’t be referring to my agent, the man known in literary circles as “Mack the Knife” or “Critical Mack.” I kept forgetting how fond Anne was of her boss, how motherly and smothering she could be.
“Yes, he is. He doesn’t let anybody but me see it, but underneath that tough demeanor, he’s a kind and fragile soul. And he’s put his neck out there for you more times than I would care to count. So do everyone a favor, Michael, and just get this work in to him. And for God’s sake, please don’t wait until the stroke of two to turn it in.”
“All right Anne. There’s something you’re not telling me here. That’s twice you’ve mentioned Mack putting his neck on the line. What’s really going on?”
She paused before saying. “Nothing. Mack is just worried about you, Michael.”
Even though I couldn’t see her, I could tell that the corner of her left eye was twitching – it happened whenever she told a lie.
Interestingly, her heartbeat didn’t skip a beat at all when she lied. Not that Anne was in the habit of lying to me, but being Mack’s assistant meant she often had to gloss over the truth about one thing or another over the years. After getting to know Anne, I’d picked up on the minor facial tick that came with even the smallest of white lies. It was not because of any visual clue, but because with it came a minor reverberation in her voice.
I didn’t say anything, just let the silence build between the two of us, knowing it would eventually be too much for her.
Anne gave within sixty seconds.
“J.B. was here to see Mack last week.”
There was no other J.B. that Mack would meet. Anne was referring to J.B. Bridgeman, the owner and publisher of Bridgeman House Publishing. J.B. never went to see anyone. They always came to see him. The fact that J.B. was in Mack’s office meant something important that I couldn’t fathom.
“And?”
“This is hard for me to tell you, Michael.”
“Just go ahead, Anne. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
“Okay. . . With each and every release of your Bronte novels, there is a good 6-month pre-publication stirring in the publishing worlds. The online retailer presales figures start cracking within minutes after the book is first posted, and your forthcoming book hits bestseller status weeks before its release.
“Your backlist titles, which have a regular, consistent sales pattern also increase in those weeks leading up to your new release.
“In all, Bridgeman tends to hit a noticeable peak in their overall sales during this pre-publication period that carries nicely into the first four months of each of your new Bronte novel releases.”
She paused for several seconds before continuing.
“But it’s not happening at all, this time, Michael. Your story collection is not generating any sort of buzz, the presale numbers are among the lowest of your presales ever.”
She was silent again, which was fine, as I considered how hard I’d pushed in this particular direction. All, obviously a huge mistake.
“And the word on the street,” Anne continued, “is that this is actually having a negative impact on your backlist titles.”
“Word on the street?” I asked.
“That you’re done with Bronte – that you haven’t anything new left to do with him. That you’re finished, tired, have used it for all it’s worth.”
I laughed, but a sick feeling settled in my stomach. “I haven’t heard a peep of that sort of speculation.”
Anne didn’t have to tell me that there were various forms of “word on the street” in the industry, much of it kept out of the public eye. It was entirely possible that this word was spreading fast. Despite publishing being a relatively slow business in terms of turnaround times and publication schedules, it could be as cut-throat as any other business, and trends and loyalties could shift and change on the turn of a dime.
Did this mean that the industry bigwigs were all laughing at me, calling me yesterday’s news? Had I become the latest in a long string of “has-been” authors?
I shuddered, offered another chuckle and tried to grasp onto any floating jetsam I could to preserve my pride.
“Negative?” I said. “I could understand sales being slow . . . but negative sales?”
“The sales of your backlist titles have slowed rather dramatically, and Bridgeman is beginning to report returns figures higher than ever before of your mass market releases.
“It’s as if Bridgeman offered some sort of recall on them. Bookstores are simply not moving the backlist titles and are starting to purge themselves of them. The big chain and the wholesalers have cut their regular standing draws of these titles to their smaller stores. They’ve even gone so far as to each cancel more than half of their “advance ship” orders on your collection.”
I sank into the soft leather chair beside the phone. There was always a lot of talk about collusion in the oil industry, with competing gas station brands jacking up their prices and lowering them according to some invisible “feeling” – but the book industry moved in similar motifs. While there were still strong independent movements in various pockets of North America and the U.K., much of the industries “winners” and “losers” were determined by the large chains and the whims of the buyers at these chains.
I understood then why Mack had me scheduled on Letterman. It’s a last bid attempt to bring me back into the spotlight as an author that has something to offer.
A chance to redeem myself.
“I see, Anne,” I managed to say. “Thank you.”
There was a moment of silence between us, then Anne whispered. “He’s coming back, Michael. I have to go.” And she hung up the phone.
I held the receiver in my hand a moment, then gently placed it down. The hairs on the back of my neck had started to rise, I felt a low growl rising from the pit of my stomach, and I was viewing the room through a slight shade of red.
I didn’t care how powerful Bridgeman Publishing was. Bridgeman or no Bridgeman – nobody backs me or any one of my pack into a corner.
This revelation about Bridgeman publishing and the industry trends was just the tip of the iceberg, of course. It was the last of a series of straws that had been piling on my back since I woke up naked in Battery Park. That other wolf in my territory, some sort of unsolved murder involving my alter ego, Gail’s engagement, her finance’s kidnapping . . . It was all pushing me into a corner that I did not like being in.
I let the growl out in a satisfying purge that vibrated through my entire upper body.
With the growl I stretched my arms up into the air, my fingers half curled into paw-like fists. Then I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, let it out slowly.
I sat down at my keyboard, opened up a completely new document and glanced at the time – it was 12:18 – and began composing.