Page 77 of The Write Track
Calmly, I lifted my chin. “Every single little thing you could want, we’re going to get. I don’t want to hear any lip.”
She laughed. “You’re kind of bossy.”
Yup, and I was going to get bossier. One way or another.
20
TWENTY
The first reader weekend had a few snafus. Preston complained as if an asteroid were hurtling toward the Earth and it was all the fault of somebody else. He could never be to blame for anything. Sure, the issues that arose—the readers didn’t want to stick to the itinerary and just wanted to hang out with their favorite authors in whatever scenario presented itself—weren’t technically his fault. But his need to schedule things had come back to bite him in the ass.
By the second reader event, a full week later, he had a better handle on things.
My nerves had been intense for that first event. Everything had gone smoothly, however, and readers had actually turned up to see me. They didn’t deign to spend time with me because they’d come for Bree and she was busy. No, they actually wanted to talk to me. That did a lot to smooth my ego, even though I caught Preston glowering more than once at the way they fawned over me.
The following week was relaxed. Nathan and I took morning walks to the tables on the far side of the small lake. There we set up shop in the shade and wrote for a few hours before returningfor lunch. After eating, we kayaked or just lazed around in hammocks, talking about anything and everything.
He preferred the originalStar Trek,while I was a big fan ofStar Trek: The Next Generation. Neither of us likedStar Trek: Enterprise.
I was a fan of humorous 1990s horror, but he preferred 1980s horror that was so cheesy it was inadvertently funny.
I liked teenage soap operas.Dawson’s Creek,One Tree Hill, andGossip Girlwere guilty pleasures.
He liked their paranormal counterparts ofBuffy the Vampire Slayer,The Vampire Diaries, and especiallySmallville.
We both agreed that musicals were painful.
When it came to food, we were on the same page. Mexican, Italian, and steakhouses were amazing. Sushi, salads, and Indian food were overrated. Spicier food was not the better in our world.
Sometimes, I caught Preston watching us from afar. He’d become less of a presence in our lives. Not for lack of trying to insert himself or anything—he was constantly trying to get between us—but our bond was too great, and Preston was a small, small man. His frustration was evident in everything he did, and I knew he was preparing to make a move. I just had no idea what that move would entail until we met for breakfast the morning of the second reader weekend.
“I was thinking that it would be better for the authors to completely split up and take a handful of readers with them for walks around the lake,” he started. “That will allow for one-on-one conversations that aren’t monopolized by specific authors.” He gave Nathan a pointed look.
“I think he’s saying I’m chatty,” Nathan said to Brody in a voice that was just loud enough to carry.
“You are chatty,” Preston readily agreed. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Last weekend, however, you keptswooping in to take over Bella’s group and I don’t think that’s fair to her readers.”
Nathan’s eyes narrowed. He knew exactly what Preston was trying to do. His problem—mine as well—was that for once, my ex-boyfriend from hell wasn’t wrong. Nathan had flown in like a superhero a few times when I’d become stymied at how to keep the conversation going. I’d been grateful. Preston was right, though, I needed to be able to fly on my own.
“I was just trying to help,” Nathan said flatly.
“And there’s nothing wrong with that.” Preston was the picture of benevolence. “We’re trying to improve on last weekend, however. Let’s try to do it my way this time, huh? I am the promoter.”
Nathan looked as if he wanted to argue. A warning look from Brody had him snapping his mouth shut, however. Ultimately, he nodded.
“We’ll do it your way,” Brody said. “We can’t follow a strict itinerary, though. That doesn’t work for the readers. We need to be able to change things on the fly.”
“I have no problem with that,” Preston said. “Let’s at least start the event my way. Then we’ll figure it out as we go.”
I HAD FIVE READERS WHO WANTEDto walk around the lake with me. They were all eager to talk about my books and my process. Two of them were wannabe writers. Bree had warned me to be careful with those individuals. They would take anything I said and hold it up as lies if the same process didn’t work for them. That’s why I was careful to preface everything I said with “well, this is what worked for me” and “I got lucky that this worked, although I’m not sure it would a second time.”
The argument of luck versus skill when it came to writing was an old one. Everybody who hadn’t garnered a deal or seensuccess believed it all came down to luck. Everybody who had made it and sold well believed it came down to hard work. I happened to believe it was a mixture of both.
“So you think it all comes down to luck?” Angelica Houston asked. She was twenty-two and timid. It had taken her a solid quarter of a mile to actually ask her first question.
“I believe that success starts with a bit of luck but can only be sustained by hard work,” I replied, searching for the right words. It shouldn’t have been so difficult for a writer, somebody who was paid to put words to paper, to say the right thing. I wasn’t always good when put on the spot, however. “Basically, there is an element of luck to all of this. But you can’t sustain the luck forever. You need to be able to figure things out on your own after your initial bout of luck.”
“That’s kind of vague,” Lisa Brighton countered. She was an intense individual who reminded me a lot of Preston. She had a checklist of questions to ask, and she was going to get through them no matter what. If she didn’t like the answer, she would keep circling back as if the answers would somehow change. It was grating.
