Page 2 of Not a Strong Enough Word

She’s not going to let this go. Trina might be the only person in the industry who is more stubborn than me. It’s one of the reasons we work so well together, but it sure is infuriating when I try to put my foot down and get blocked by her logic and reasoning.

“There are hundreds of imprints. Can’t we go somewhere else? A small press, maybe?”

I don’t want to say it out loud, but I’m not looking for another million-dollar deal. They don’t just hand you a million dollars and say, Go write a book! No. They need to make their money back, and then some. Which means press tours and more books to generate more interest… It was too much pressure the last time, and it ended in me walking out of JMP’s offices with the tatters of my torn-up pending contract for three new books in my hands and a broken heart in my chest. Not only did my career die that day, but I left the state and walked away from my ex-boyfriend, another one of JMP’s editors. I spiraled into a deep depression, lost all my friends, my family—who had never been supportive of my career in the arts—more or less disowned me. And the rest is history.

My stomach sours at the memory, even five years later. I take a giant bite of toast to fill the emptiness.

“This is highly emotional lit fic, Scarlett. It’s right up Casey’s alley. Not to mention that I know for a fact that they’re looking for a big name to put them on the map.” She pauses for a moment as if considering whether or not to continue. But, of course, she does. “And you need the money. Or…” She draws out the word, and I already know I’m not going to like what she’s going to say next. “We could shop it around. You’d probably get several offers. It’d go to auction…”

The very thought of this book going to the highest bidder sends a shiver down my spine. But I’m also probably about two months away from losing this apartment if something doesn’t turn around. Not that I’d be sad to move out, but lacking any friends or family left in my life, I don’t really know where I’d go.

“You can’t live with me,” Trina singsongs into the phone as if she read my mind. “I have boundaries.”

“So do I,” I fire back. “I’m not crawling back to JMP or this new imprint with my tail between my legs.”

I had signed my first deal with JMP as a starry-eyed twenty-five-year-old fresh out of my MFA program with a novel on my hard drive and ten more in my heart. They made my debut a bestseller. And my sophomore novel hit just about every list, too. But when they started asking for more faster without any regard for the sleepless nights, weeks away from home doing interviews and signings, and constant stress they were putting me under, I broke. Two years after I signed my first deal, they tried to ploy me with a better one to soothe the hurt caused by the first. The thought of even less sleep and a worse work-life balance than I already had nearly pulled me all the way under.

And when all of your relationships are tied up in an industry where image is everything, the optics of being associated with the crazed, depressed, sleep-deprived writer who is tearing up six-figure contracts on her way out the door isn’t great.

Trina knows all of this, of course. She was there. She’s maybe the only one who supported my decision when I resurfaced two years later. Which is why it surprises me that she’d even suggest going back to the place that caused this whole mess to begin with.

“It’s been five years,” she says gently. Almost as if she doesn’t want to poke the bear. “It’s a new world. People are demanding work-life separation, and this new publisher respects that. This press is said to be better for authors. That’s in their branding, which I’m assuming is why JMP acquired them. You weren’t the only one with an issue, Scarlett.”

“No, but I was the only one who burned a million-dollar deal to the ground.”

“Right,” she affirms. “But to be fair, they didn’t hand out many million-dollar deals, so there weren’t that many to burn.”

“I don’t think that makes me feel better,” I mumble. I take another bite of toast to prevent myself from saying something I’ll regret.

“Look, they want a fresh start. So do you. I get where you’re coming from, but this could actually work in our favor.”

The giant bite of toast scrapes against my dry throat as I try to swallow. I fill a relatively clean glass with water to wash it down. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone loves a comeback story. Especially readers.”

“Are you talking about the same readers who took to the internet to talk shit about me in droves?” I remind her. “Their memories are long.”

“Which is why I am going to suggest something a bit unorthodox.” She says it like a warning, and I brace myself for impact. “I want to submit this to Casey under a new pen name. When he tells me he’s interested—which he will—we’ll reveal who you really are before anything is signed. By then, they’ll want the book enough to go along with this. We’ll meet with their marketing team to come up with a timeline for releasing the information about who really wrote it. Everyone will have fallen as much in love with this book as I have, and the reveal will create another uptick in sales because you’ll be forgiven.”

“Or they’ll buy copies to burn in effigy,” I interject.

“Sales are sales!” she trills.

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one.”

I poke a finger under the pile of dark hair that passes for a messy bun to scratch my head as I tip my eyes up to the ceiling in thought. It’s a big risk, and it’s a little bonkers, but it’s also brilliant. I wouldn’t be the first author to come back from disgrace. And I certainly wouldn’t be the first well-known author to publish something under a different pen name. Worst-case scenario: If Casey rescinds a deal when he finds out who I am, I’m right back where I started. With the added bonus of shoving it in Trina’s face with a nice I told you so dance to ensure she never submits anything of mine to JMP or its subsidiaries ever again.

This business won’t break me again. I can’t let it.

“Fine,” I finally say. “This better not backfire.”

“It won’t.” Trina can barely hide the glee in her voice. I hear a keyboard clicking in the background. My heart skips a beat at the thought that she might have had everything ready to send off and was just waiting for my approval. Is it out there already?

“Don’t worry.” She reads my mind again. “I wouldn’t send it with you on the phone. No one needs that level of anxiety.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief as my shoulders slump forward. “Thank you.” I lean against the counter and idly tap the pointer finger of my free hand against it. “What’s this new acquisition called anyway?”

“Anastasios Press,” she says distractedly.