Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

“Tully,” he says, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that word of my departure has reached him. “I should have warned you. ”

“I’m sorry, Fred,” I say.

“Don’t be. ”

“Thanks, Fred,” I say. I am about to do more, maybe even grovel a little, when I pass a Barnes & Noble bookstore. The book in the window catches my eye.

I stop dead. Of course. I should have thought of this before. “I have to go, Fred. Thanks again. ” Before he has even answered, I hang up. The Xanax is making me light-headed. So much so that it takes several tries to call my agent.

“George,” I snap when he finally answers. “Guess where I am?”

“Well, you’re not cohosting a low-rent TV show on an also-ran local station. ”

“You heard about that?”

He sighs. “I heard. You should vet these choices with me, Tully. ”

“Forget Kooky Kendra, who’s an idiot. Guess where I am?”

“Where?”

“Outside a bookstore. ”

“And I care, why?”

“Because I’m looking at Barbara Walters’s new memoir, Audition. It’s in stores now. If I remember correctly, she got five million for it. And DeGeneres scored a huge deal. Hell, didn’t she get a million for her book of essays?” This may be the best idea I’ve ever had. “I want a book deal. ”

“Have you written any pages of a memoir?”

“No. But how hard can it be? I’ll start tonight. What do you say?”

George says nothing for so long, I prompt him again. “Well?”

He sighs. “Let me throw out a line and see if anyone bites. But let me ask you this, Tully: Are you sure about this? You’ve got some dark things in your past. ”

“I’m sure, George. Find me a deal. ”

* * *

How hard can it be? I am a journalist. I’ll write the story of my life. It will be a bestseller—inspirational and heartfelt.

By the time I get home, I am excited for the first time in forever. I change out of my black suit and put on sweats and pull out my laptop. Then I curl up on my sofa with a cup of tea and begin. I type: Second Act.

Then I scroll down, indent for the paragraph, and stare at the blank screen.

Maybe the title is a problem.

I stare at the blank screen for a while longer. A long while, long enough to decide that tea is the problem. Maybe wine will help.

I pour myself a glass and return to the sofa.

The blank screen again.

I push the laptop aside and check my watch. I have been “writing” for hours and have nothing to show for it. That depresses me, but I push it aside.

Research.

Any writer has to begin with research. I know that from my days in journalism. Once I was a cub reporter. I know about digging for a story.