PRUDE
A Novel
Hilaria Alexander
Copyright © 2015 Hilaria Alexander
Cover Design: Lauren Muraco
Editor: Lauren Traynor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To all the Indie Authors out there.
You made self-publishing what it is today.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also from
Hilaria Alexander
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FU Cancer
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Chapter 1
“TIMES are different, Prudence,” Cora says. “It's not like when we started,” my editor adds, trying to justify her point of view. I raise my eyebrows at her harsh tone. Sure, things have definitely changed in the publishing world the last few years. Self-publishing has provided opportunities to so many talented writers who would still be undiscovered if they had to go through the tortuous process of getting a book deal.
“Take Becca and Anya, for example,” she says. “When you go to that book signing with them, they’ll be frantically scribbling their autographs on multiple books per person. The readers will show up for them—new adult is hot right now.”
I remain quiet. What does Cora expect me to say to her? When I learned I had been paired together with Becca and Anya for this book signing, I assumed they would have the bigger turnout. I have to look at the truth; they are the more famous authors. But I’m not mad about it. Becca and Anya are two of the most popular authors in the new adult genre. Their steamy, sexy, new adult books are all the rage, as my editor has to remind me time and time again. Both of them started writing books as a pastime, and eventually turned it into a career. New adult has definitely given a push to EBooks, and vastly broadened the horizons of the romance novel world. Even young adult books got a boost from the popularity of the new adult movement.
As a matter of fact, the young adult genre is popular like never before. I have never sold as many books as I do now, and Cora knows it. My genre of choice is young adult novels. That’s my niche. However, I’m a bit old school, or so I was told recently. Since I graduated college eight years ago, I have been working as a writer. I started with stories about teenagers, and that was it.
When I got my first book deal, the publishing company gave me a contract and told me to “keep going.” So I did. Everything about my stories was wonderful. They loved the characters, the values, and according to the publishers, my characters stood out because they had such good morals. They loved that my stories were romantic without crossing the line, genuine, sweet, and age-appropriate. I kept writing my stories, and they kept telling me I was doing great.
But now, all of a sudden, Cora is sitting here telling me good morals and age-appropriate are no longer enough. I feel like a fool to have not seen this coming. I’ve known Cora since our days at NYU. I knew my contract with Biblio had to be renewed, but I wasn't concerned. Adaline, my latest release about a girl in search of her immigrant mother, has not sold as much as my previous releases, but my books still sell pretty well, even the older ones.
It’s not that my writing isn’t good, Cora is saying. It just isn’t hot. “Well,” she says, correcting herself, “I mean, it isn’t hot enough.”
My writing isn’t hot enough.
I repeat that phrase over and over in my head as she rambles on. I have been writing since I discovered I like making up stories, so that probably means I have been writing since I was in high school, and professionally since I graduated college.
“Frankly, Prudence, why are you acting so surprised?” she demands. “When I talk about you to other editors, that's the first thing they say to me, Oh, Prudence, she sure writes like a prude!”
Ouch. That’s harsh, even for her. And just plain stupid. I hate the word. I always have.
When I was younger, I hated my own name, specifically because of that noun. I hated the inevitable name-calling that came out of it. In high school, I did all I could not to be called a prude. I tried so hard not to look like a goody-goody, but I refused to look like a slut. So being the alternative chick was my thing.
At least people left me mostly alone and didn't throw that stupid nickname around. I looked edgy enough that people stopped messing with me. But my look ended up attracting a certain crowd. Because of my hardcore style, if I went out with a guy and refused to let him go to second base, I was inevitably a prude again.
When my first boyfriend—a junior basketball player who was also, surprisingly, part of the alternative crowd—pressed me to have sex with him, I refused, because I felt I wasn’t ready. I was teased and called a prude again. I loved that I had my grandma's name, but at times, and especially at that particular time in my life, it felt like a burden. And here I am again, at thirty years old, being called a prude for my writing, for wanting to keep it simple and clean.
Cora doesn’t stop with her critique. She keeps going on and on.
“I know you know young adult very well. You are a pro at what you do, but I think you are a little out of touch. Like I said, times are different. Even the world of young adult is a little more daring nowadays. It's not just the in-house staff that feels this way. Don't you think I read the reviews? That's what your readers are complaining about. You have to give the reader something more!”
Funny. I always thought that an author should give the readers what they need, not necessarily what they want. For some reason, I thought Cora did too. I have never gotten this kind of tough love about my writing, from her or anybody. I look at her in disbelief. I didn't even know what rejection was in the literary world. My first book was with Biblio. As soon as Cora got a job there after college, she tried to do whatever she could to get them to sign me and earn herself a junior editor position at the same time.
Girls like Cora always get what they want. She is the typical blonde—glamorous and perfect-looking all the time. I, on the other hand, am definitely showing signs of the disheveled writer, especially right now. The disheveled, puzzled writer. Being in your writing cave all day for the last eight years will do that to you.
“This is why Biblio has not renewed your contract yet. They—actually, let me rephrase that—we are biding our time. We just don't know if we are going to get anything new and exciting from you, and right now there are a lo
t of talented writers with new ideas and fresher takes on romance. The competition out there is fierce. So, unless we get something from you that feels like a new and improved Prudence Clearwater book, I am afraid we cannot renew your contract.”
I am stunned.
I’ve remained silent for her entire lecture. I was never good at defending myself during an argument, and honestly, I don’t even feel like I can argue with her. I know she is right, to an extent. My writing is on the safe side, but I never thought it was a major problem. I thought the wholesomeness of my stories was a good quality, not something to laugh about.
Apparently, I am the joke of the company.
Good grief. Have I been that blind?
“Look, Cora . . . if my writing style is such an issue, why am I only now hearing about it? You couldn’t have been bothered to share this valuable piece of information earlier? I’m given an ultimatum after eight years?”
She sighs, as if my confusion exasperates her.
“You cannot seriously pretend you are hearing this stuff now for the first time. Have you not gotten my notes for your last book? It was full of hints! I kept asking you to revise the make-out scenes you had. I think I even included a note that said something like push it further. I didn’t think I had to be clearer than that!”
I fold my arms across my chest. I am pissed. The whole conversation is ridiculous.
“No, that wasn’t very clear. So you will not only think I am prude,” I say, using air quotation marks, “but also obtuse? Besides, we both know what kind of books I write.”
“I didn’t say you were a prude, Prudence. Other people perceive you like that. You are extremely talented, and you value your reader so much you don’t want to give them something cliché. Unfortunately, I was told to have this conversation with you and convince you to change things a bit. You could even switch genres, if you wanted. Some of your earlier readers are all grown up by now. They might love a new adult book coming from you.”
Here we go again.
“We discussed before that I have no desire to jump on the new adult bandwagon. I don't think it's for me, and I’m not sure that’s the kind of genre I want to write,” I say, shrugging.
However, I do consider it for a moment. Maybe I can use a little change?
“I don’t even know if I can pull it off,” I say, sighing.
“Oh I’m sure you can pull it off, honey!”
She is looking right into my eyes, and although she probably means to sound encouraging, it just seems patronizing. We stare at each other for several seconds, and all I want to do is shake her and yell, “Who are you and what have you done with the Cora I know?”
I’m usually patient, but for some reason I can’t take her criticism any longer. I feel claustrophobic all of a sudden.
“This conversation is making me uncomfortable. It’s really making me question who I work with,” I say, glaring at her. I shake my head and say, “Maybe I should just leave.”
She keeps talking nonsense and is excessively condescending, as if I can’t see she is bullshitting me.
“If you need to think about it, just take a day or two, then we can meet for drinks and you can let me know. How about Monday when you come back from the book signing in the Hamptons?” she asks, glancing at the planner on her desk. She lifts her head from her planner and looks at me, expecting an answer. It takes me a few seconds to organize my thoughts.
“I don’t think I want to change what I write about, Cora. When I said I should leave, I meant maybe I need to leave Biblio altogether. Maybe we are not a good fit anymore.”
Cora starts freaking out. “Prudence, this is not what I want. I value you as an author. You are a wonderful writer and a wonderful friend too,” she says, looking at me with such sincerity that I almost fall for it.
I shake my head in disbelief.
“Hold on . . . I am a wonderful writer, yet you want to change the way I write and the things I write about, the way my readers know me? All for what? Slightly better sales? I know my books don’t do that badly. So what is it, really? That I didn't make the New York Times Bestsellers with Adaline? Why are you suddenly trying to change me? And you claim to be my friend!”
Cora usually keeps her shit together even in the worst situation, but her face betrays her. Did she think I would just go along with her plan and agree, like I usually do?
“I think we should part ways. I know I’m a good writer. I don’t need this. Like you said, times are different. Now I have the option of being my own publisher if I want. I don’t need you. I can do it by myself on Amazon!”
I never do anything impulsive, but strangely, this feels right.
I should go, I tell myself. I should just leave.
I stand up, but she keeps trying to reason with me, trying to convince me to sit down and keep talking. I don’t know when the last time I had an argument was, but the rush of blood to my cheeks feels good, and for once I feel I am in control. I start walking out of the office. Cora comes after me, following me out to the atrium of the office. She tries to get closer and quietly pleads for me to come back. I can hear her heels clicking behind me. She’s calling my name, softly, trying not to make a scene and doing her best to keep her composure. I head for the elevators and catch one that has just stopped at the floor. I step into the elevator, then turn and wave, staring at her shocked face before the doors close.
After the meeting with Cora, I have about twenty-four hours of extreme high, telling myself I’ve done the right thing, followed by a depressing low that comes with the rhetorical what have I done? What am I going to do now? By the time Rebecca and Anya stop by to pick me up for the signing, I’m in a bad, bad place. I don’t want to have to tell them what happened and ruin our time together, but my face and ragged appearance give it away.
When I open the door, Rebecca looks at me in disbelief.
“Oh boy! What do we have here?” she asks.
“What happened, honey? Is Lupin all right?” Anya says in a voice full of concern.
“Oh yeah, he’s great. Napping on the couch as usual,” I say, pointing at the black cat behind me. He’s named after one of my favorite Harry Potter characters.
“Well then, what the hell happened to you?” Rebecca quickly fires back in her Texas accent.
“Let's go to the kitchen, I need coffee,” I reply, motioning for them to come in.
I make coffee, and we sit around my tiny, square kitchen table, taking slow sips from oversized mugs. I try to shake off my mopey attitude as I bring them up to speed on what happened with Cora, whom they know but don't work directly with.
“Oh, honey, everything will be okay! You know you are a good writer. You can just self-publish like we did, or get an agent and get a book deal with some other company! Don't beat yourself up!” Rebecca tells me, stroking my hair as I lay my head on the table.
I feel hopeless. They have been working as writers for just a few years, but they are so wise, and when I’m with them, I always feel like the rookie, in a good way though. Because they are older than me and both are wives and moms, they make me feel like the little sister. I adore their loving nature, and I honestly don't know how they keep their shit together with all the things they constantly have going on.
“Go take a shower, wash your hair, and we'll fix you up!” Anya says. “You’ll feel better, I promise! But hurry, ‘cause we gotta hit the road!”
By the time they are done with me, I’m ready to call them miracle workers. They pick out a cute black knee-length flare dress I forgot I even had, do my make-up, and style my hair with a curling iron. I might still feel a little like crap inside (mostly my bruised ego), but I look wonderful. They look at me expectantly and Anya says, “Better?”
I launch myself at them and pull them in for a hug. “You guys are the best bitches anyone could have! I can’t even do my hair and make-up like this!” I say, glancing in the mirror. They look excitedly at me, and Anya says in a horrible pirate impression, “Let's go to
the fucking Hamptons, aaarrr!”
I usually hate being in a car for more than thirty minutes, but the ride to the Hamptons is the most fun I have ever had on the road. Rebecca is driving, and she and Anya are playing ‘80s songs, singing them completely off-key. They are so funny, and it’s impossible not to be swept away by their easygoing personalities. I’m having a good time, but in the back of my mind, Cora's words are still burning.
I don’t get why she asked me to change. Why would I want to write according to what the latest trend is? I have never done it and don’t intend on starting now. Criticism, good or bad, still stings. And since I have been doing this for about a decade, now I feel like I have been doing it all wrong. Am I, though?
So people think I am a prude, or at least, whoever the fuck Cora has been talking to at Biblio. I guess they really must think that of me, but do I care? No. Yes. A little bit. No one likes to be labeled a whore; the same thing for being called prude. It’s like being told you’re a nun. I know it’s stupid, but it stills stings. I try to shove all the bad thoughts away.
We get to the bookstore and bring our carts of extra books with us, just in case the store does not have enough. When we walk in, both Rebecca and Anya's books are displayed on the main tables, but none of mine are. I don’t plan on saying anything, but the girls realize this and ask the manager why they do not have my books out.
“I'm so sorry, ma'am, but we got a call from Biblio yesterday saying Ms. Clearwater would not be able to attend, so we changed the display. I apologize. We will fix that immediately.”
That bitch. This was her doing. Anya grabs my hands, saying, “Honey, it’s okay. Don’t lose your mind. It’s a stupid mistake.” But we both know that’s not the truth.
The bookstore’s staff, along with Rebecca and Anya, help me set out some of my books. We update our Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram pages, saying that the three of us will be at The Bookstore Around the Corner in the Hamptons. We go hang out in the back of the store, waiting for the readers to show up. When it’s time to roll, the atmosphere is playful and everyone is relaxed.
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