“Addie, you don’t sound like yourself. Are you okay?” she asks. Her voice is laced with concern.
“Um, I’m fine. In true transparency, this waiting is killing me. I know we set a boundary about work and our friendship, but three months is a long time for me to be patient and not ask about my book,” I answer honestly.
“Are you sitting down?” she inquires. Her voice is neutral.
“Yes.” I grip the phone tightly.
“Big Sky Publishing wants to buy your book.” Nina’s voice goes up an octave.
“What?” I only heard the word book. I might have blacked out a little. Nina slows her speech.
“Big. Sky. Publishing. They want to buy your book.”
I gasp. Holy. Shit. Balls. Then I scream, “Fuck yeah!” I am classy like that. She laughs.
“I’m so proud of you! I knew you could do it.” I feel her smile through the phone.
“Nina, this is a celebration of you, too. You’re the one who pushed me to finish,” I replied emphatically.
“Oh, sweetie. I know you had it in you all along,” Nina says.
“Okay. So what’s next?” I inquire.
“Ashley Eberhardt from Big Sky will be calling you. We’ll meet with her and go over the contract. Then the fun begins.”
“Fun?” I ask.
“Yes, Addie, the fun. Well, first, there’s the editing and all that boring stuff, but then the good stuff. Book launch, signings, interviews—you know, the fun things that go with becoming a published author.” She says it like we’re going shopping. Which, for the record, I despise. Okay, now I am internally freaking out. I am an extroverted introvert. I like people, but I don’t. I know it sounds odd. I have a very tiny circle of people that I communicate with, and frankly, being alone is quite appealing. Maybe I didn’t think this writing a book thing through. Damn. My stomach clenches. My hands get clammy, and my breathing hitches.
“Addie, I can practically hear you thinking through the phone. Stop. This is going to be fine. You’ll see. Allow yourself to enjoy this. I will be with you the whole way, both professionally and as your friend.” She has the most amazing way of grounding me.
“Alright. I will calm my inner thoughts.” I laugh. Honestly, my thoughts are like squirrels at a rave.
“Oh, and for the meeting, wear something other than your typical attire.” She has now switched to “professional” Nina.
“What’s wrong with my attire?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Addie, business attire should not scream I-just-rolled-out-of-
bed-and-don’t-give-a-shit.”
“Ugh, okay,” I say with less enthusiasm.
“If you need me to come over and help you pick out something, I can,” Nina quips, but I know she’s serious.
“No, I can dress myself,” I state. She laughs.
Bitch.
We say goodbye and end the call, and I am left to process this life-changing development.
Addie
Later in the day, my phone rings again. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but I answer it in case it’s the publishing house.
“This is Addie.” I try not to sound annoyed just in case it isn’t a telemarketer.
“Addie! Hello! This is Ashley Eberhardt from Big Sky Publishing. I’m sure Nina already told you that I finished reading your manuscript. I have to say, it’s magic! We’re interested in signing you, so I’d love to meet you and go over the details. When are you available?”
Instead of answering, I find myself at a loss for words, paralyzed by my inner dialogue; those bitches don’t know when to shut up.
Bitch, what is your problem? Answer her!
Stop overthinking.
If you answer her like you’ve got your shit together, you can finish off that ice cream that you’ve been eyeing since breakfast.
“Addie, are you there?” she asks.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, I would be happy to meet with you. I mean, I am completely open. Nothing happening here. You know how it is, the glamorous life of a freelance writer.” I start giggling as I ramble. I’m pretty sure that this Ashley woman might already be having second thoughts about signing me. My face contorts in a silent reaction to my ridiculousness.
“Please, Addie. Don’t worry. You aren’t the first writer to react that way. How about tomorrow at nine? I will have my assistant send you the details. But be prepared because I think this is the beginning of an amazing journey.”
I accidentally squeal a little—with joy, not like Miss Piggy or anything—thank her, and hang up the phone. Owen walks in from work. I run over and hug him, practically squeezing the life out of him. He gives me his usual blank look.
“Addie. Stop! I can’t breathe.” By this time, I am giggling like a drunk clown.
“Owen, a publishing company just called, and they want to buy my book. Do you know what this means?”
“They did? Addie, you are the best writer. I like the stories you tell me. I knew you could do it.” He smiles at me. “Does this mean we’re eating Mexican tonight?”
“Yes! We’re celebrating!”
“Good, I’m hungry.” He turns and heads toward his room.
He leaves me with a big grin because while I may have just sold my first book, he lives for the simplicity of chips and salsa.
Addie
I enter the upscale, plush New York City office and find it laden with sophisticated furniture clad in linen. Infused lavender permeates the air. I suppose the ambiance should relax me, but there is that unceasing, nagging voice in the back of my head, trying to remind me that I am unworthy. As I inhale the sweet scent, a level of satisfaction bubbles up, and I’m all smiles as I approach the reception desk and make small talk with Ashley’s assistant, Sally.
Sally escorts me to Ashley’s office, a mix of classic decor sprinkled with modern elements. Contemporary art decorates the walls along with photographs of the authors whose books Big Sky has published. I go a little fangirl as some of them have created my book boyfriends. I can’t believe I’m in their company. Nina is standing near the windows soaking up the spectacular view of the bustling city. She turns to greet me with a slight smile. I know I’m going to get a lecture because I might have ghosted her yesterday.
“You didn’t call me back. I left you a couple of messages.” She raises her eyebrows at me. Sometimes she can be scary.
“I know. Look, I’m sorry. I was pretty sure you were calling about my ability to dress myself. And for the record, I can dress myself. Look, Mom, no yoga pants.” I laugh.
Nina doesn’t laugh. Instead, she puts her hands on my shoulders, which is more like the Eiffel Tower looking down on the Seine River—huge height deficiency on my part—and lovingly says, “I know that you’re nervous. I know that it makes you incredibly uncomfortable to have the focus placed on you. But you are an incredible human being, and this book is part of your journey.” She backs up before continuing. “As we progress in this process, you might want to consider a publicist. I have someone in mind. Oh, and you, my beautiful friend, are getting a stylist.” She grins.
I stare at her like she has two heads. My breathing stutters. Could this be a dream? I always hoped that my book would find a way to reach the masses, but then that would be it. I would go back to my simple, boring life. And a stylist? Please. I think I did a great job with my attire today. I selected a pair of black slacks, along with a white cotton blouse. How could that be wrong? Sure, I just realized that there’s peanut butter on my pants, and I am wearing my cat socks, which, by the way, are a hot commodity since I saw them on The Ellen DeGeneres Show. As if Nina can read my mind, she grins and rolls her eyes.
When I first lay eyes on Ashley, I am overwhelmed by her stunning beauty and instantly feel self-conscious. I lack self-esteem. Feeling “less than” is my default setting. Ashley blankets h
erself in designer labels, sports perfectly coiffed hair, and oozes sex appeal (with curves that rival Marilyn Monroe’s).
“Addie, it is such a pleasure to finally meet you. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed reading your manuscript. Now the real work begins. I just want to prepare you. Your life is about to change. Are you ready for this?” She waits for my response, but I feel that she doesn’t want my honest answer.
Addie
It’s been nine long months since my initial meeting with Nina and Ashley. It has been a process of editing and strategizing that has required me to embrace this new adventure. I have passed the time by starting a new writing project, keeping regular date nights with my book boyfriends, as well as martini drinking with Nina. This keeps my squirrely thoughts at bay. Mostly.
I stroll down the busy Brooklyn sidewalk to my four-story walk-up apartment building. It is easy to be energized by the vibe of the neighborhood. The eclectic group of people that reside here and the stories that accompany them weave a rich tapestry of culture and personality. The mix of young and old occupants sprinkled with individuals from various ethnicities is the foundation of this community.
The climb to my apartment on the fourth floor is the only thing I would change, but I count it as exercise, so that’s a bonus. As I enter my humble abode, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. Why I would even purchase this reflective spawn of Satan is a mystery, but I allow myself to look. My pixie hair sticks out in all directions, and my face is devoid of makeup. I am wearing my standard yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt that reads, “Writer’s block happens when your imaginary friends stop talking to you.”
The status of my body has always been a source of my lack of confidence. I accept the reality that a size two is not in my future. After all, the height fairy skipped over me and left me vertically challenged. The damn fairy couldn’t even spare another inch or two. I’m curvy and slightly overweight because, duh, I adore food and despise exercise. Since being forty-something is an introduction to aging, my boobs have started to embrace gravity and hang lower than they used to.
My moment of critiquing my body is interrupted by the sound of my intercom. I buzz them up. Now, don’t gasp. Nobody buzzes me unless they know me. Plus, New York is not as scary as people make it out to be.
When I hear a knock on the door, I stroll over and open it to what appears to be a mirage. There in front of me stands a man—not just any man, but a man who literally takes my breath away. He is at least six feet tall with a muscular build. Light dances in his brown hair with flecks of silver, and his eyes—well, I’m completely lost in them with their piercing green hue. His chiseled face is a work of art, and ladies, his suit is fitted, accentuating his fine assets. If he were a fire, he would easily be of the four-alarm variety. Am I panting?
Silver fox, I think. The problem is that what I am thinking slips through my lips. It happens to me when I’m nervous. I lose all filters. Probably one of the reasons I haven’t dated in a very long time. I will explain that issue later, but let’s get back to the hottie in my doorway.
“Excuse me?” says the tall drink of water.
I decide that my best course of action is to pretend that I don’t hear him.
“Oh, um, I think you have the wrong apartment. This is 4B. Stella lives around the corner.”
Stella is a stacked blond who “entertains” regularly. It wouldn’t be the first time her “friends” got the apartments mixed up.
“Who is Stella? Never mind, are you Addie Snyder?” When I nod, he continues, “I’m Jameson Ford, your new publicist.” He stares at me. It is disconcerting.
I stand there, stunned. I assumed Nina would hire some adorable twenty-something girl who would be perky and happy. Jameson is a far cry from perky or happy. He looks pained. I realize that I might have forgotten about a meeting that Nina said she had set up with my new publicist. I need to start writing shit down. Plus, she never shared that she hired a hot-as-hell man. I am going to kill Nina. Too bad. I kind of like her.
Jameson
I take one look at the quirky woman standing in front of me and feel an instant twinge of regret about taking this job. After all, I am highly sought-after in the publicity world, so I really don’t need to take on yet another client, but Nina and I go way back. I did this as a favor to her. Addie isn’t what I expected. She is wearing clothing that hides her figure; her hair is short and unmanaged. Her nervous energy is palpable as she wrings her hands while her eyes gravitate to the floor.
I subtly peek behind her at her apartment. As a former Navy SEAL, I thrive on structure and discipline. I don’t have room for disorganization in my life, nor am I remotely flexible in that area—and it’s nothing I’d ever want to change. From the looks of Addie’s place, I feel smothered. The place is cozy but packed with knickknacks, photographs, and books. Good God, the books. It looks like a library has vomited in her apartment.
“Are you done passing judgment?” She eyes me suspiciously.
How did she know? Is she a mind reader?
“I’m admiring your place,” I say.
She snorts and lets out a laugh. I like her laugh, and that smile, well, it lights up the room. Shit, what the hell is happening here?
“Well, I thought Nina was going to send a woman,” Addie says. “No offense. I’m not sexist or anything, but…well, okay, I’ll now shut up. I tend to ramble when I’m uncomfortable.”
“Good to know. I assure you, Ms. Snyder, I am the best in the industry, and Nina wants you to have the best.” Sure, I sound egotistical, but in this industry, you must have a lot of ego to get to the head of the pack.
“Please call me Addie. I don’t know what the big deal is. I mean, I wrote one book.” She waves her hand dismissively.
I study her. She doesn’t have any idea what this process entails.
“Addie, we need to start the promotion process now, before release, and then once your book is released, we’ll need to make the media rounds. This means interviews like Good Morning America and The Today Show, along with using social media. Not only do you need my help, but things are going to change. My rules. And you might want to stop letting just anyone into this building without first identifying who they are.”
Her eyes narrow, and she blows out her breath harshly. “Listen, I don’t take instruction well. I am forty-something…and I have been on my own for a long time. We can work together, but I make the rules.” She thinks she’s intimidating. How adorable.
“Are you done?”
She remains silent, appearing satisfied that she’s getting her point across.
“Look, we can work together, but you need to let me help you navigate this. It can be intimidating at best.” I scrutinize her attire. “On a more important note, Nina has scheduled a stylist for you.”
“Yes, Nina told me about the stylist. Apparently, I can no longer dress myself.” She sighs. “I just thought that the book would be released, and I could simply sink back into my regular life.” I can tell she’s starting to panic. It happens. Writers tend to hide behind their words. Words become a comfort—an outlet, a place of retreat. This client will probably require a lot of handholding. Christ, now I’m thinking about holding her hand.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have written something that would change the landscape for the average middle-aged woman. I’ll be in touch.” I smirk, opening the door to leave.
“Wait, you read my book?” Her expression softens.
“Of course. I have to be able to promote it, and to do so, I have to know the material.”
“What did you think? I mean, did you like it?” Her eyes search my face.
“I think Sherry is a strong, formidable woman. I particularly liked how funny and relatable she was despite her insecurities.” I am not bullshitting. I enjoyed it and know that I can promote it successfully. If I have Addie’s cooper
ation, and that means my rules, like it or not.
“Wow. Thank you so much.” She whispers the words, and a slight smile tugs at her lips.
“Of course, the romance was unrealistic, but it’s exactly what your target readers want, so it works.” I need to be honest. Romantic love is not real. It simply doesn’t exist.
“So you have never been in love?” she inquires, furrowing her brow.
“Lust, yes. Love, never. It is a setup for hurt, and I, for one, don’t believe in it.”
“Good to know. Well, it was delightful meeting you, and it should be interesting working with you.” She smirks. Her tone is laced with sarcasm.
“Here’s my card. If you have any questions, call me.” Ignoring her last remark, I hand her my card. Our fingers touch, sending sparks through my body. I walk away as fast as I can.
Addie
Holy shit! What is happening? The silver fox, a.k.a. Jameson, is pushy. A big, hard, muscular know-it-all. When our fingers touched while he was handing me his business card, I felt my lady parts wake up from their long winter’s nap. My hoo-ha is Rip Van Winkle. His presence made me tingly. Jesus. Anyway, I could hardly focus. He’s ridiculously handsome and a great big asshole. I am torn between hate and lust. I mean, he’s demanding, judgmental, and he literally doesn’t believe in love. Who thinks that way? I didn’t have a great example of love growing up, but I know it exists. I know there is a possibility of me finding it. Even if I simply find it by creating it for my characters.
All I heard was him spouting nonsense about our next steps, including the words “tour,” “appearances,” and “stylist,” which are up there with bad words like “diet,” “chocolate shortage,” and “no wine.” My mind is reeling. I am going to murder Nina. Grateful he’s gone, I pull out my cell phone to text the bitch.
Me:
Thanks for the warning. This publicist is bossy, annoying, and a complete asshole.
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