The crowd breaks out into cheers again, and my heart swells in my chest, sucking it all in. The fame. The love from perfect strangers. Knowing my words have touched so many people. It’s surreal, even after all this time. I may have twenty novels under my belt, had my name appear on the New York Times bestseller list multiple times, have an insanely supportive fanbase, and a super popular paranormal romance series that got made into a TV series—and season one won two fucking Emmy awards—but I still feel like the same outcast I did the day I moved to LA.
A loner.
The weirdo.
Forever alone.
Too much for anyone to handle.
Surround me a thousand adoring fans, and all it does is remind me how alone I actually am. I’m a walking and talking cliché, I know. And I hate myself for it.
I made it.
Did the impossible.
And for that, yeah, I feel like the bad-fucking-ass my fanbase thinks I am. The nerd, the underdog, the girl everyone made fun of made it not only in the scary world of publishing but now is flourishing in Hollywood. I’ve dated actors. Gone out with producers. Partied with reality TV stars. Signed books all over the world and had my novels translated into more languages than I knew existed. I went from writing fan fiction to my own original stories, and those novels hit it big time with the paranormal and sci-fi loving crowd. My characters became a voice in the much overdue feminist movement, giving hope to those who’d otherwise been hopeless, as well as just providing an entertaining-as-fuck series for pretty much everyone to enjoy.
“Tell me more about Kellie,” Helen says, and the audience eagerly agrees. “How did you come up with such an interesting character?”
My lips pull into a smile, genuine this time, because I can talk about my characters all day long. They’re all me in some sense, just a little less neurotic, even the ones who fight demons on the regular. I’ve put myself into each and every one of my characters in some way or the other, and I stand behind creating realistic and relatable characters one hundred percent, which I know caused waves at last year’s Comic Con.
I have a degree in sociology. I grew up wanting to be a social worker and didn’t study English for years like some of my peers, who look down on me for said lack of degree. But I’ll look out at the audience and tell them with confidence that you either have what it takes to write or you don’t, and wasting years studying “the craft” won’t make up for your lack of talent.
I’ve pissed off my fair share of wealthy parents by saying just that, but I stand by it. Anyone can get a fancy degree if you can wrangle up the money. Creativity can’t be taught. You can learn how to unlock what you already have, but if you don’t have it then you don’t have it.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I refocus my energy on the live interview, telling myself I’ll get a burger—a real one, not that vegan patty shit—if I can pull this off. Deep down, I know I can. I’ve done tons of interviews just like this one, and I love talking about my characters. A rush goes through me, and I reach for the glass of water on the coffee table in front of me. I take a careful drink, always afraid I’m going to dribble water down my chin or drink it the wrong way and spend the next three minutes coughing.
Never in my life did I think taking a drink of water could be this stressful, but welcome to show business. I’m able to drink without choking, drooling, or spilling water on the table when I set the glass back down, ready and excited to launch into a full conversation about Kellie, the leading lady in my paranormal series.
We take a few questions from the audience, and we’re getting close to a scheduled commercial break, signaling that I’m nearing the end of my interview, thank goodness. It’s always been a little difficult for me to keep my eyes on the host or the audience and not get distracted with what’s going on backstage, with the things I can see, but you have no clue about when you’re watching a show.
“Before we go,” Helen says, seamlessly lifting her own glass of water to her lips and taking a drink like a pro. “I think we all are dying to hear about this.” She smiles, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth. “The romance,” she says, and the crowd cheers again. My stomach tightens and I smile, suppressing the fact that she got me. “Who inspired Marcus?”
I can talk about feminism, kick-ass-take-no-shit female leads all day. But ask me about love? Hah. This is where I’m exposed, where it’s obvious I’m a big fat fucking fraud. I’ve been in relationships before, all ending the same way: epic failure. I know nothing when it comes to matters of the heart.