One
I could be somewhere else right now— anywhere else—and it would be better than this.
A traffic jam on the Jersey Turnpike. Jogging at the gym while some meathead keeps grunting and dropping his weights. My grandmother’s house when she’s ranting about the President reading her mind…again.
In fact, I could be running from an erupting volcano and it would still be better than this.
“I won’t write it,” Sylvia says.
Being caught by the aforementioned volcano’s magma flow might not be as miserable, either.
Sylvia Stone, multimillionaire mega-bestselling author whose books you’ve seen at every grocery store and airport for the last twenty years, is trying to stand her ground again.
In theory, she’s defending her principles as an author and artist.
In reality, she has no principles.
This is about ego.
But Sylvia Stone is the author of novels guaranteed to inspire, titillate, and touch your heart. Her appeal ranges from swooning college girls to religious book clubs and everything in between. Her market is huge.
She can afford to have an ego.
“Sylvia, Sylvia , darling. What’s the problem? You loved this concept at our last meeting.” This comes from Grosvenor Lateen, from the board of directors at Durand-Price Publishing. He runs the Moonlight Sonata imprint. Essentially, all they publish is Sylvia Stone. An entire imprint dedicated to the care and feeding of the diva.
His title looks good on paper, and I’m sure that he banks a fair chunk of Sylvia’s earnings, but ninety percent of his job is keeping Sylvia happy. I don’t envy him.
“It’s not the concept,” Sylvia says, flapping her sausage fingers at him. “The concept is fine. It’s the execution of it all. It’s so…” She takes a delicate sniff that makes her jowls wobble. “Plebeian.”
“There’s no edge to it,” adds Mario Stone. He’s Sylvia’s literary agent, husband, and aspiring hot air balloon. If Sylvia is ninety percent of Grosvenor’s job, the other ten percent is keeping Mario out of the way.
“Edge isn’t Sylvia’s brand.”
The cool tones of Violetta Kilshaw’s English accent make the room fall silent. She’s in charge of the marketing department and the real brains behind Durand-Price. She’s also the Terminator.
If anyone can silence Sylvia, it’s Violetta.
But not today.
“My brand is whatever I say my brand is,” Sylvia hisses.
Grosvenor massages his eyes with his fingers. He’s looking old today. Having an impromptu developmental meeting when the deadline for the book in question is two weeks away will do that to you.
“Coffee,” he says.
I’m on my feet in an instant. I’m grateful for the order, terse as it may be. The espresso machine is in the kitchen, so he’s unintentionally given me an excuse to leave the room and breathe.
The kitchen in Sylvia Stone’s house is exactly what you would expect from an author of her stature. Everything looks like it belongs in a Martha Stewart country kitchen catalog. I’ll admit that the numerous nautical touches are cute. She has seashells and model ships and even a telescope by the bay window.
That said, I’m not sure if Sylvia actually likes these things or if she only likes the idea of having them. I know she thinks they make her look “worldly.”
Everything is picture-perfect until you open the refrigerator and discover how much Sylvia likes to eat ice cream. (Hint: A lot.) She denies the addiction, of course; ever since her type-II diabetes bombed her Weight Losers advertising deal, discussion of carbohydrates isn’t allowed within these hallowed walls.
The espresso machine has a position of honor on her marble countertops, though. Sylvia has been trying to cut back on caffeine for the sake of her blood pressure, but these lengthy Durand-Price Publishing meetings keep it in frequent use.
While the water steams, I sit on one of the driftwood barstools and gaze outside. Her wall of windows overlooks the ocean and the
I could be somewhere else right now— anywhere else—and it would be better than this.
A traffic jam on the Jersey Turnpike. Jogging at the gym while some meathead keeps grunting and dropping his weights. My grandmother’s house when she’s ranting about the President reading her mind…again.
In fact, I could be running from an erupting volcano and it would still be better than this.
“I won’t write it,” Sylvia says.
Being caught by the aforementioned volcano’s magma flow might not be as miserable, either.
Sylvia Stone, multimillionaire mega-bestselling author whose books you’ve seen at every grocery store and airport for the last twenty years, is trying to stand her ground again.
In theory, she’s defending her principles as an author and artist.
In reality, she has no principles.
This is about ego.
But Sylvia Stone is the author of novels guaranteed to inspire, titillate, and touch your heart. Her appeal ranges from swooning college girls to religious book clubs and everything in between. Her market is huge.
She can afford to have an ego.
“Sylvia, Sylvia , darling. What’s the problem? You loved this concept at our last meeting.” This comes from Grosvenor Lateen, from the board of directors at Durand-Price Publishing. He runs the Moonlight Sonata imprint. Essentially, all they publish is Sylvia Stone. An entire imprint dedicated to the care and feeding of the diva.
His title looks good on paper, and I’m sure that he banks a fair chunk of Sylvia’s earnings, but ninety percent of his job is keeping Sylvia happy. I don’t envy him.
“It’s not the concept,” Sylvia says, flapping her sausage fingers at him. “The concept is fine. It’s the execution of it all. It’s so…” She takes a delicate sniff that makes her jowls wobble. “Plebeian.”
“There’s no edge to it,” adds Mario Stone. He’s Sylvia’s literary agent, husband, and aspiring hot air balloon. If Sylvia is ninety percent of Grosvenor’s job, the other ten percent is keeping Mario out of the way.
“Edge isn’t Sylvia’s brand.”
The cool tones of Violetta Kilshaw’s English accent make the room fall silent. She’s in charge of the marketing department and the real brains behind Durand-Price. She’s also the Terminator.
If anyone can silence Sylvia, it’s Violetta.
But not today.
“My brand is whatever I say my brand is,” Sylvia hisses.
Grosvenor massages his eyes with his fingers. He’s looking old today. Having an impromptu developmental meeting when the deadline for the book in question is two weeks away will do that to you.
“Coffee,” he says.
I’m on my feet in an instant. I’m grateful for the order, terse as it may be. The espresso machine is in the kitchen, so he’s unintentionally given me an excuse to leave the room and breathe.
The kitchen in Sylvia Stone’s house is exactly what you would expect from an author of her stature. Everything looks like it belongs in a Martha Stewart country kitchen catalog. I’ll admit that the numerous nautical touches are cute. She has seashells and model ships and even a telescope by the bay window.
That said, I’m not sure if Sylvia actually likes these things or if she only likes the idea of having them. I know she thinks they make her look “worldly.”
Everything is picture-perfect until you open the refrigerator and discover how much Sylvia likes to eat ice cream. (Hint: A lot.) She denies the addiction, of course; ever since her type-II diabetes bombed her Weight Losers advertising deal, discussion of carbohydrates isn’t allowed within these hallowed walls.
The espresso machine has a position of honor on her marble countertops, though. Sylvia has been trying to cut back on caffeine for the sake of her blood pressure, but these lengthy Durand-Price Publishing meetings keep it in frequent use.
While the water steams, I sit on one of the driftwood barstools and gaze outside. Her wall of windows overlooks the ocean and the
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