surrounding beach is private. Her private yacht bobs at the end of her private dock. Yes, it’s the same yacht that’s in the background of her author photo. It’s even nicer in person.
The espresso machine is bubbling, but I can still hear them arguing in the foyer.
“This book needs more sex,” Sylvia announces.
Grosvenor splutters. “Excuse me?”
“Sex. Sex! The book needs more sex! Are you deaf?”
“Sex sells,” says Violetta. “Sex does not, however, sell your books.”
Sylvia is outraged. “How do you know?”
“But Sylvia…you’ve never written an explicit sex scene in your books before,” Grosvenor says. “Your numerous readers would be surprised.”
Surprised? They would be horrified. The pearl-clutching would know no bounds.
The fact we’re even having this conversation would stun them.
I smile faintly at the thought.
This is only the first of many battles to come. I know. I’ve been to every one of Sylvia’s meetings with the publisher for the last five years. And oh my goodness, this woman needs a lot of meetings.
The contract negotiations. The plot concept meetings. The developmental meetings. Editing and marketing meetings. An endless parade of meetings, which prevent dear Sylvia from doing any real work but make her feel incredibly important.
As I’m getting to be old hat at this, I already know exactly how this will fall out.
Sylvia will make increasingly ridiculous demands.
The publisher will try to talk her out of it.
Sylvia will threaten to break her contract.
The publisher will concede enough small things to appeal to her sense of self-importance and add another zero to her next contract.
Sylvia, pleased, will leave me to write the book and eat more ice cream.
It’s been the same story for five years. Five years. Nothing will change until Sylvia finally vanishes off the end of the earth on that darn yacht of hers, staffed entirely by muscular young men who have been forbidden to wear shirts in her presence.
I know the story so well that I could write it with my eyes closed.
You’ve never heard of me, though. I’m Christine Durand. My name’s over the door of Durand-Price because my father, bless his eternal soul, helped found the corporation. Various corporate maneuverings and stock buyouts took the company from my family well before I hit adulthood, so my employment there is more of a courtesy than anything they write press releases about.
The cast of characters is like this:
These days, the Durand name has been reduced to author’s assistant, publishing roadkill, Invisible Woman.
Sufferer of Sylvia Stone’s excessive parade of meetings.
If someone were to bomb Sylvia Stone’s foyer right at that moment, they would cost the publishing industry at least a billion dollars. That’s how much all of these people are worth.
The bomber would also spare the world some of the ugliest egos that have ever graced New York.
I’m nothing compared to these people. Less than nothing. I consider a meeting successful if I take enough notes to make sure a book gets written to specifications and nobody looks at me twice.
Two dainty cups have filled with espresso. They’re tiny, but more than adequate.
Violetta prefers hers black; she is unsurprisingly practical in her tastes, as if you couldn’t tell by her timeless, tailored black suits, tightly-woven bun, and last season’s Louboutins.
Grosvenor will want enough milk and sugar that he can’t taste the coffee. I froth some milk for him, add the syrup, and mix in the espresso.
Mario doesn’t need his own cup. He’ll just want to look at my butt as I bend over to serve the espresso.
In the other room, Sylvia is blustering.
She wants sex in her books. She wants a cover that involves a naked man with a chest that has been waxed and greased. She wants to write something with bondage, because bondage sells , you idiots. “I can’t believe you don’t trust my judgment,” she says tearfully.
Oh, she’s
The espresso machine is bubbling, but I can still hear them arguing in the foyer.
“This book needs more sex,” Sylvia announces.
Grosvenor splutters. “Excuse me?”
“Sex. Sex! The book needs more sex! Are you deaf?”
“Sex sells,” says Violetta. “Sex does not, however, sell your books.”
Sylvia is outraged. “How do you know?”
“But Sylvia…you’ve never written an explicit sex scene in your books before,” Grosvenor says. “Your numerous readers would be surprised.”
Surprised? They would be horrified. The pearl-clutching would know no bounds.
The fact we’re even having this conversation would stun them.
I smile faintly at the thought.
This is only the first of many battles to come. I know. I’ve been to every one of Sylvia’s meetings with the publisher for the last five years. And oh my goodness, this woman needs a lot of meetings.
The contract negotiations. The plot concept meetings. The developmental meetings. Editing and marketing meetings. An endless parade of meetings, which prevent dear Sylvia from doing any real work but make her feel incredibly important.
As I’m getting to be old hat at this, I already know exactly how this will fall out.
Sylvia will make increasingly ridiculous demands.
The publisher will try to talk her out of it.
Sylvia will threaten to break her contract.
The publisher will concede enough small things to appeal to her sense of self-importance and add another zero to her next contract.
Sylvia, pleased, will leave me to write the book and eat more ice cream.
It’s been the same story for five years. Five years. Nothing will change until Sylvia finally vanishes off the end of the earth on that darn yacht of hers, staffed entirely by muscular young men who have been forbidden to wear shirts in her presence.
I know the story so well that I could write it with my eyes closed.
You’ve never heard of me, though. I’m Christine Durand. My name’s over the door of Durand-Price because my father, bless his eternal soul, helped found the corporation. Various corporate maneuverings and stock buyouts took the company from my family well before I hit adulthood, so my employment there is more of a courtesy than anything they write press releases about.
The cast of characters is like this:
These days, the Durand name has been reduced to author’s assistant, publishing roadkill, Invisible Woman.
Sufferer of Sylvia Stone’s excessive parade of meetings.
If someone were to bomb Sylvia Stone’s foyer right at that moment, they would cost the publishing industry at least a billion dollars. That’s how much all of these people are worth.
The bomber would also spare the world some of the ugliest egos that have ever graced New York.
I’m nothing compared to these people. Less than nothing. I consider a meeting successful if I take enough notes to make sure a book gets written to specifications and nobody looks at me twice.
Two dainty cups have filled with espresso. They’re tiny, but more than adequate.
Violetta prefers hers black; she is unsurprisingly practical in her tastes, as if you couldn’t tell by her timeless, tailored black suits, tightly-woven bun, and last season’s Louboutins.
Grosvenor will want enough milk and sugar that he can’t taste the coffee. I froth some milk for him, add the syrup, and mix in the espresso.
Mario doesn’t need his own cup. He’ll just want to look at my butt as I bend over to serve the espresso.
In the other room, Sylvia is blustering.
She wants sex in her books. She wants a cover that involves a naked man with a chest that has been waxed and greased. She wants to write something with bondage, because bondage sells , you idiots. “I can’t believe you don’t trust my judgment,” she says tearfully.
Oh, she’s
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