It wasn’t. It was just Jane.
Even though I’d been writing for hours and knew I deserved a break, I feigned very seriously typing away. Residual guilt from my Catholic school days.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
I put a period on the end of the nonsense I’d just written—sjlkje;k kl;dyuwejldk;;.— and looked up at her. “Great,” I said. “Super.”
She stepped in, closed the door behind her, and took the seat on the other side of my desk. “Kevin wants you to call him.”
I gripped my hair at the roots and gave it a tug. My dad used to tell me I’d go bald if I kept doing that. So far, I’d proven him wrong, but this book could wind up being the bitter end for my still youthful hairline. I supposed it’d serve me right. “Fine. Let’s call Kevin.”
He probably only wanted to see how I was doing, but I always felt like I was going to the principal’s office every time my agent wanted a chat. Kevin had signed me years ago, when I was no one, and I still felt like I had to keep proving my worth to him over and over again.
Jane pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed. She turned on the speaker and placed the phone in the middle of my desk. Kevin answered on the second ring. “Hi, Jane.”
“Kevin?” Jane said. “I have Mr. Bradford here.”
“Matty,” Kevin said. No one in my entire life had ever called me Matty except Kevin. I’d told him right off the bat that I hated it, but he refused to listen. It took all of my strength not to start calling him “Kevvy” in return.
“Hi, Kevin,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fabulous,” he said. “Living the dream. More importantly, how are you doing?”
“Pretty good.” I glanced out the window. “The weather’s been nice here, so I’ve been jogging outside. And we hired a new cook who yesterday made me these amazing snacks with cheese and nuts—”
Jane shook her head and mouthed, “The book.”
Oh, yeah, that. But talking about my work wasn’t as exciting to me as the prospect of a plate of little bites of goat cheese, rosemary-spiced almonds, and dried apricots showing up outside my door at two in the afternoon. “The book is going well.” Mentally, I added the word finally.
“Glad to hear it,” Kevin said. “We need to talk about the outline, though.”
“Oh…yeah?” A pit formed in my stomach.
A few days ago, against my better instincts, I did as the TV folks asked and sent them my outline and the first fifty pages of the book. This wasn’t how I usually worked. I knew a lot of writers who wrote by committee—sharing pages with writers’ groups or critique partners—but I was a bit of a lone wolf. I didn’t like to allow other people into my drafting process—not even Jane. I never talked to anyone in any specific terms about the plot of the story, out of both superstition and practicality. It reminded me of my friend Kerry, who, when she was pregnant, told everyone she would not be announcing the name or even the hint of a name until the baby was born. People were raring to criticize a name in the abstract, but they’d think twice about saying anything negative when it was attached to a person. It was hard to make fun of Adorabella Sixx when she was swaddled in your arms, gazing up at you so innocently.
It was kind of how I thought about my books. If I told someone the plot upfront, more often than not, they’d give me their opinion about the concept itself or tell me where they thought the plot should go. I had it all figured out in my head—or I would, once I got the story down on paper (or computer, as the case may be). When other people got involved, it made me question my instincts. And the truth was, first drafts were first drafts. They were me muddling through all the gunk to get to the good stuff.
“They’re really excited about where the story’s going, and they love the first fifty pages,” Kevin said, “but they have some notes.”
Of course they had notes. I sent them a stinking rough draft. Hell, I had notes.
I let out the breath I’d been holding and said, “Obviously, Kevin, the story isn’t done yet.”
“Right, but that’s the concern,” Kevin said. “We’re all really excited to see where you take this, Matty. But we’d like to make sure everybody’s on the same page regarding the trajectory of the story before you get too far into it.”
I ran a finger under the collar of my T-shirt. It was getting too hot in here. I swiveled around on my desk chair and opened the window behind me, letting in the forty-degree air from outside. I was already too far into it. “Do they want me to finish the book on time or to finish it the way they want it?”
“Yes,” Kevin said. “Both.”
Great.
“What are their thoughts?” I asked.
“I’ll send you the markups.” I could hear clacking sounds over the phone as Kevin typed out an email. “But one of their main concerns is dragons.” His voice dropped a bit on that last word.
Jane and I shared a look.
“No dragons,” I said. That was non-negotiable.
“Consider dragons,” Kevin said. “I think that will go a long way. Just say you’ll consider them.”
“I won’t consider them,” I said, “but sure, I’ll say it, if that will get them off my back.”
We said good-bye to Kevin, and Jane put the phone back in her pocket. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford.”
“It’s fine.” I stood and plucked the sweatshirt from the back of my chair.
“What can I do?” she asked.
I glanced around the room, this guest bedroom we’d repurposed as my office. I’d set up a desk in the brightly lit alcove, posted notes all over the walls, and turned the bed into a drafting board. We’d made it as pleasant as possible, but it had become my prison, really, and now I had to pretend to “consider dragons.” “Nothing, Jane, but thanks.”
“I know you don’t work like this, but if you want to use me as a sounding board—”
“That’s really nice of you.” I grabbed my shoes from next to the couch and sat down to put them on.
“You going for a run?” she asked.
“I need to clear my head.”
Jane clutched her notebook to her chest. “Maybe dragons wouldn’t be the worst thing…”
I glared at her.
“I know that’s a touchy subject, but—”
“No dragons.”
She let me pass. Downstairs in the front hallway, I stopped for a moment to listen, to see if I could hear where Dani was. No noise. Maybe she was out food shopping or something. Deflated, I exited the front door and took off running.