The hard part’s in turning two hundred words into three hundred pages.
“And time,” J.A. says. “Now, please move a few lines down and write a single sentence about what your main concern is with your story. If there’s nothing” —she pauses dramatically— “then you’re a better writer than I am.”
We laugh and get to work. I write about my struggle, not with my story but with expectations from myself, from Hilda, and from the publisher and how they’ve led to a near-complete mental blockage. It feels good to purge that onto the page, and my hopes that someone of the Grand Dame’s caliber might be able to help me rise.
“Excellent. Feel free to work or discuss among yourselves. Find inspiration in each other, help guide each other through your concerns if you’re willing to share. Meanwhile, I’ll invite you up one at a time.”
My inner fangirl squeals, and I have to press my feet to the floor to keep from kicking them in excitement. I’m going to meet the J.A. Fox one on one. My life might be complete after that. Put a fork in me because I’m done, bucket list complete, and I’m able to die a happy woman.
There’s a little conversation around our table as I chat with the two nice authors. “You know, I had the same thing the first time I had to do a guy-guy scene,” Yasmina says. “I mean, it’s hot and all, but I didn’t know it, you know?”
“So what did you do?” Winnie, the regency author, asks.
“Went to a gay bar in my town and told the bartender my problem. He told me to take a table, and for the next six hours, I bought drinks for men who happily told me all I ever needed to know,” Yasmina says with a laugh. “Trust me, those recordings more than broke up my writer’s block.”
“Yeah, but I kinda know how Tab P goes in Slot V,” I point out.
Winnie giggles. “Maybe that’s your problem? There are other slots, you know. Slot A, slot M, slot H.”
The mean girl author, Elizabeth, raises a brow at Winnie’s list and speaks for the first time since we sat down at the worktables. “H?”
“Hand jobs, dear,” Winnie explains. “Shall I define the others too?”
Ooh, seems I’m not the only one picking up on the ‘it’s bitch o’clock somewhere’ vibes from Elizabeth, our fellow author. And Winnie is playing too with sharp, quick wit.
We try to keep writing a bit, but as I do, I can’t help but watch as each author is escorted up to the stage. They get a good amount of time to chat, maybe five minutes or so. They then take a photo, receive an autographed copy of The Art Thief, and talk about their stories.
I can’t wait for my turn.
Not soon enough, the assistant taps me on the shoulder, and I get up to follow her, sliding my laptop into my bag for the trip to the front of the room. This baby’s my life.
“So nice to meet you,” I say, holding my hand out and fighting to keep my voice on an even keel. “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I started writing because of you.”
She shakes my hand and smiles warmly. “Poppy, lovely to meet you as well. I really enjoyed Love in Great Falls.” My jaw falls open, and her eyes dance. “Of course, I read it. I think probably everyone here has.” She laughs at her own words, and I’m still gaping like a fish out of water. “There’s a new name in town, and she’s bloody good.”
Belatedly, my brain clicks on, and I find words, though not the ones I mean to say out loud. “I think I just peed myself in excitement!”
Even the assistant laughs at that, and I hear a deep-voiced chuckle morph into a clearing throat behind me. I turn to see who it is and find the sexy security guard. Of course, he heard that.
“Unless there’s something you’re having trouble with, could I ask that we not discuss what happens in Trouble in Great Falls? I’m anxious to read it myself and don’t want to be spoiled by knowing the plot.”
Blinking, I try not to be disappointed. I was hoping that she’d have some great insight to help me, but now, I can’t say ‘My characters are cold fish with no connection.’ That’d surely ruin her reading of it. Oh, my God, she’s going to read it!
“Of course. Can I just ask what you do when you have writer’s block?” I ask carefully. “I’m having a brick wall of a time right now.” I bang my head on an invisible wall in front of me to illustrate my point because words are hard, even for authors, when confronted with a greatness like the Grand Dame.