by Shane Bolks
A tongue of blue fire leaps up from the pit on the side of the yard, and Dave and Hunter jump back, cursing. Rory and I roll our eyes.
“I don’t want to be Princess Allison anymore.” I stare at the fire, then the lake and beyond—at all the mansions, the Porsches, and the yachts, bobbing in the ghostly dark of the water. “I think I’ll just try being me.”
* * *
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SHANE BOLKS
* * *
If My Life Was a Reality TV Show, It’d Be Survivor— “Outwit, Outlast, Outwrite’’
4:46 A.M.
The alarm clock beside my bed screeches. I beat it into submission.
5:01 A.M.
I stumble into my office, hands outstretched until I feel the chair in front of my computer. As I slide into it, my toe squishes into something soft and wet. I pry my eyes open. Cat hairball. Again.
5:09 A.M.
Hairball removed from toe and carpet, I open my personal e-mail, hoping my editor has gotten back to me about fabulous new proposal I e-mailed last night at 11:37 P.M. No reply. I check my watch. It’s 6:10 A.M. in New York. What are they doing up there? Send a follow-up e-mail to ask if my editor ever plans to read fabulous new proposal or whether she’s just going to sit on it indefinitely.
5:18 A.M.
Open business e-mail account, where I know there will be dozens of gushing fan letters waiting for me.
From: Grwzbig
Subject: Enlarge your penis!
From: Hornebyz
Subject: Hot babes
From: Buckher
Subject: Group sexxx
From: Mom
Subject: Please call
From: Bookfan
Subject: Good, Bad, Ugly Book
I delete all except the last as Spam, and open what I expect will be an embarrassingly flattering e-mail.
From: Bookfan@…
Sent: Thursday, 11:58 P.M.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Good, Bad, Ugly Book
Dear Ms. Bolks,
I read your book The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly Men I’ve Dated. I wouldn’t have normally bought it, but I liked the title. Ms. Bolks, I don’t know if you realize this, but your book doesn’t make any sense. What is a Han Solo? A Princess Leia? A Wookiee?
I never saw the movie Star Wars, and I don’t want to. Are all of your books going to be this confusing? I didn’t get this one.
Sincerely,
Bookfan
I check the time and decide I have a few minutes to respond.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, 5:23 A.M.
To: Bookfan@…
Subject: My wonderful book
Dear Bookfan,
Thank you so much for writing to Ms. Bolks. We are sorry to send this automatic response, but Ms. Bolks is much too busy and receives far too many letters and e-mails to respond to each personally. She thanks you for the voluble praise about her book. She is blushing from delight and embarrassment.
Sincerely,
Management
5:46 A.M.
I had better write a few pages on my current work in progress. It’s only a matter of time before editor calls with effusive praise for fabulous new proposal, and all that flattery could take a chunk out of my writing time.
Open current w.i.p., sumptuous historical romance. It’s due in a week, but no worries.
I scroll to the last page, thirteen. Hmm. I thought I’d done a bit more than this. No matter. I’ll just slave away all day and catch up in no time. I reread the last line.
“When Brad walked into the room, she caught her breath. Her heart sped up, and her bosoms heaved.’’
Brad doesn’t sound like a very historical name. Perhaps I should change it to Russell or Orlando or Ben?
And doesn’t bosoms seem like an overused word? A search reveals I’ve used it seven times in thirteen pages. I’m going to have to pull out the thesaurus.
Breast, bust, chest…substitute bust and then try to think of the next line.
5:49 A.M.
Fingers poised over the keyboard, waiting for inspiration.
5:50 A.M.
Still waiting. Fingers getting tired.
5:51 A.M.
Ah-ha! Got something!
The…
5:51 A.M.
Damn! False alarm.
5:52 A.M.
I check e-mail again to see if editor has responded.
Nothing.
Back to w.i.p. Realize forgot period on last sentence. Add punctuation. Now we’re making progress.
6:03 A.M.
Decide to read Squawk Radio, my favorite blog.
6:30 A.M.
Fiancé awake and wanders into office. Asks why I’m staring into space instead of writing. I tell him I’m imagining I am one of the Squawk Radio ladies and channeling my inner bestsellerdom.
Fiancé asks when I’m leaving for my workshop. Check watch.
6:33 A.M.
Shit!
6:34 A.M.
Race to the bathroom to shower and dress. Wish desperately I’d thought to review workshop notes more last night, but fabulous new proposal took all my attention. Now I’ll have to wing parts of workshop titled “How I Got Here: Tips from a Multipublished Author.’’
6:38 A.M.
Where am I exactly? If I don’t finish sumptuous historical romance and editor does not like fabulous new proposal, will have to retitle workshop “How I Was There: Tips from a Has-Been.’’
6:47 A.M.
Who am I to give workshops? Know nothing! And having very bad hair day. Should really stay home because I’ll probably be laughed out of workshop anyway.
6:59 A.M.
Last check of e-mail. Still no word from my editor. It’s eight o’clock in New York. What are they doing up there? No time to fire off another e-mail, so kiss fiancé good-bye, jump in the car, and race to my workshop.
7:18 A.M.
Sitting in Houston traffic.
7:34 A.M.
Sitting in Houston traffic.
7:56 A.M.
I know! I don’t have to talk about me in the workshop. I’ll talk about Nora Roberts. Everyone always wants to hear about her.
7:57 A.M.
Realize I don’t actually know Nora Roberts.
8:30 A.M.
Arrive at the conference. Discover workshop is actually a panel. Yay! Less time to make a fool of myself. I’m so relieved there’s a panel discussion. Maybe one of the other speakers knows Nora Roberts.
9:03 A.M.
Just began talking. One audience member already asleep.
9:20 A.M.
First question. Where does inspiration come from? Stall for time.
10:37 A.M.
I’ve successfully deflected all other audience questions and distracted the attendees once by asking a particularly garrulous member about her plot. She went into great depth, and by then the audience had forgotten the question.
11:12 A.M.
Is this ever going to be over?
11:23 A.M.
I wonder what’s for lunch.
11:30 A.M.
Jump up because my cell phone is ringing. Assure the audience it must be my editor and I absolutely must take her call.
It’s my mother. She asks why I haven’t called her, especially after she sent an e-mail.
My spam filter is going berserk lately, I tell her, and it probably caught her message.
She asks if I remember the lunch meeting scheduled with wedding planner at reception site downtown. Tell her of course I do. I am, after all, a responsible bride-to-be.
11:36 A.M.
Shit!
11:43 A.M.
Sitting in Houston traffic.
11:50 A.M.
Sitting in Houston traffic, furiously texting apology message to w
orkshop coordinator. Explain that my editor loved my new proposal and needed me to fly to New York right away. Hint that Nora Roberts wants to meet me.
12:08 P.M.
Breeze into wedding coordinator meeting. Right away I’m bombarded with questions about eight different shades of lavender tulle and asked to choose the hue I want. Realize I do not care which shade is on the backs of chairs. Am I a bad bride-to-be? Attempt to deflect question, but wedding coordinator isn’t interested in my close personal relationship with Nora Roberts.
12:15 P.M.
Should not be given license to marry. Am obviously not worthy of bride status. Close eyes and randomly choose a shade of lavender.
12:31 P.M.
Now there are five bouquets of purplish flowers to look at. Do I like lilacs, irises, orchids, hyacinths, or dahlias best?
Point to irises and say, “lilacs.’’ Am terrible, terrible bride.
12:33 P.M.
Call fiancé to tell him we cannot get married, am bad bride-to-be. He tells me if I cancel the wedding, I will have to give beautiful engagement ring back.
12:34 P.M.
Decide am very good bride-to-be, just have deficiencies in flower and tulle departments. Vow to work on these.
12:36 P.M.
Fiancé reminds me to pick up gifts for the birthday parties we’re attending tonight. Loudly tell him that one of the parties is for his good friend, and hadn’t he better buy his own friend his present. Fiancé reminds me that I got out of sex last week by promising to buy the present for him. Damn.
1:03 P.M.
Stuck in Houston traffic.
1:24 P.M.
Run in to Wal-Mart and pick up video about potty training. Have heard friends with kids rave about video.
1:35 P.M.
Dash in to liquor store. Buy bottles of vanilla vodka and Diet Coke.
1:45 P.M.
Stuck in Houston traffic. Agent calls. Has read fabulous new proposal (finally someone has!) and is not sure how to pitch it. It seems my suggestion of the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood meets Pet Sematary isn’t working for him. Wants to know what my identity as a writer is.
Think for a moment and come up with nothing. Complain question is too hard, and what’s his job anyway if not to figure out my identity. He keeps badgering and then mysteriously I lose reception on cell phone.
1:50 P.M.
Voice message from agent. I have to get back to him with answers about identity. Accidentally delete message.
2:03 P.M.
Walk into my house and search for wrapping paper for party gifts. Mother calls and wants to know how we can cut wedding costs. Can we trim the guest list? Who is this Nora Roberts I’ve invited, anyway?
Finally she decides I should design and print the invitations on my computer. Agree, though have no idea how to accomplish this on six-year-old computer with only Windows 98.
Call publicist and give her new invitation assignment. She warns it’ll cost about $100 an hour. No problem. My mom is paying for the wedding.
2:43 P.M.
Check business e-mail again. No fan letters so fire off message to my website designer, asking if my e-mail server is down.
Check personal e-mail. Finally! A message from my editor…
2:56 P.M.
Am in depths of despair. Writing career is over. Proposal was not high-concept enough.
2:57 P.M.
Lie on bed trying to think of a twist for new proposal.
3:00 P.M.
Can think of nothing. Total blank. Am now entering has-been land.
3:05 P.M.
Still lying on bed. Still thinking.
3:07 P.M.
Turn on TV. I’m missing Dr. Phil!
4:02 P.M.
Want to watch Oprah, but an author’s work is never done. Go to office and make to-do list.
1) Figure out identity.
2) Think of high-concept twist.
3) Finish historical romance.
5:00 P.M.
Exhausted from the long day of work I put in, ask fiancé for back rub. Fiancé refuses. Too busy making dinner. It’s pasta, or so he says.
6:30 P.M.
Arrive at birthday party—critique partner’s daughter is turning one. Sing songs. Play games. Must leave early for other party, so make a big production of leaving special gift with CP’s teetotaling grandparents.
7:10 P.M.
Arrive at fiancé’s friend’s thirtieth birthday party. Hand over gift. Receive funny look when it’s a potty training video. Oops.
8:20 P.M.
Stuck in room with three mothers. Conversation centers around color of babies’ poop. Cannot escape or fiancé will find me and yell about gift mix-up.
8:23 P.M.
Still listening to poop discussion. Try very had to seem interested. When time comes, do not want label of bad mother-to-be.
8:33 P.M.
Poop discussion continues. Eyes glaze over and feel sort of nauseous. Try desperately to pay attention. Do not want to be voted off Poop Island.
8:35 P.M.
Jump at chance for another vodka-based beverage when asked. Resign self to being bad mother. Cannot even discuss poop for thirty minutes without drinking.
8:48 P.M.
Am asked my opinion on diapers, specifically, which is better for soft, green presolid food poop as opposed to harder postsolid food poop. All mothers turn to stare, awaiting my answer. Mumble something about biodegradable diapers—saving the environment and all that—and am banished from the circle.
9:10 P.M.
Am forced to join new tribe: the bitter divorced and cynical singles. We make fun of the mothers, and I start to enjoy myself until the criticism turns to engaged couples. Try to hide my ring, but too late.
10:01 P.M.
My flame has been extinguished and am now without tribe. Only friend is vodka. Half-empty bottle of vodka in hand, stumble into friend’s office and decide to e-mail editor new fabulous proposal. Something with a vampire. And a were wolf. Editors love that stuff.
11:46 P.M.
Fiancé carries me inside house and forces water and aspirin down my throat. Assures me will be good mother when time comes, but am no longer allowed to pick out friends’ birthday gifts.
11:50 P.M.
Get up to brush teeth and slip in something soft and wet. Cat hairball. Again.
Acknowledgments
Eternal gratitude, love, and thanks to Courtney Burkholder and Christina Hergenrader, for telling it like it is.
Erika Tsang, for making me look like a winner without making me feel like a loser.
Evan Fogelman, for always treating me like a superstar. You’re my superstar!
Shane Bolks
SHANE BOLKS is the author of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly Men I’ve Dated and a former public school teacher in Houston, Texas. She also writes historical romances under the pen name Shana Galen. Shane writes fulltime, which requires daily trips to the mall because shopping is the only activity that really allows her to think (that’s her story and she’s sticking to it). Check out the latest news, excerpts, and contests at www.shanebolks.com.
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Credits
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photograph of woman by Jupiter Images/Nonstock
Cover illustration of television by Julie Johnson
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
REALITY TV BITES. Copyright © 2006 by Shane Bol
ks. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition June 2006 ISBN 9780061751967
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bolks, Shane.
Reality TV bites / Shane Bolks.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-077311-3 (pbk.: acid-free paper)
ISBN-10: 0-06-077311-1 (pbk.: acid-free paper)
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