opened my eyes.
MarshaMarsha grabbed the bag off the trunk, fished out another piece of strudel, and pushed it into my hand. Patricia hopped up and ran over to snag the coffee pot. Anthony waved a tissue box.
“What did he say?” he asked breathlessly.
“I need to see David West,” I growled, and sipped my coffee.
“Absolutely,” Anthony said. “What did Brian say?”
“He said that Hirsch was a fucking idiot. I need to see my lawyer.” I looked at Patricia. “Next week?”
She nodded as she refilled my cup. “Yes. One week from today. 10:30.”
I took a deep breath. “One week. God, what am I going to do for a whole week?” I moaned.
“Well,” Anthony said uncomfortably, “you might try working a little. Your first draft is due in about six weeks. Oprah sent an e-mail asking how things were going.”
Oprah didn’t really send me an e-mail. Anthony called my agent Oprah. My agent is Sylvia Snow, and Anthony calls her Oprah because Sylvia is a fifty-ish black woman with lots of smarts and brass balls the size of the QE2.
In the late sixties, Sylvia got into Radcliff through Affirmative Action, and got out with a degree Summa Cum Laude and a big attitude. After kicking around New York publishing houses for ten or so years, she decided to go it alone. I was her first client. She sold my first book. Over the past several years, we have made each other lots of money. She now has a very impressive client list, including celebrities, internationally-known psychologists, and one romance/mystery/chick lit author who has her very own section at your local Barnes & Noble. She calls me her favorite author. I am, if nothing else, her first author.
Sylvia does not get me free houses in the Hampton’s or front row seats to sold-out Broadway shows. We don’t exchange confidences or spend hours chatting away like good buddies. She tries like hell to sell my books for the most possible money, and I try to write stuff that’s good enough for all her efforts. We get along just fine. Usually. But now she wanted an update on the new book, which was supposed to be complete and on my editor’s desk by June first, and the news was not so good.
I stared at Anthony, stricken. “What can I tell her?”
Anthony shrugged. “Mona, I don’t know what to say. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this for weeks. You kept blowing me off.”
Patricia was frowning. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’m having a bit of a problem with the new book,” I said
Patricia looked indignant. “That’s ridiculous,” she declared. “Mona, you write the best creamy thigh stuff out there. What kind of problems could you be having?”
“Well, I’m trying to write something different this time,” I said
MarshaMarsha tilted her head. “A Scottish one? I love those men-in-kilt things.” MarshaMarsha had been a fan before she ever met me, and she not only has read all my books, she is a long-time member of a romance-only book group that’s carefully scrutinized some of my most interesting love scenes. MarshaMarsha always scores big with her group when she brings me along so I can give a first-hand account of the hows and whys.
I shook my head.
“One of those supernatural romances?” she asked hopefully.
Patricia frowned. “Supernatural?”
“Yes,” I explained. “They’re actually called paranormal romances. Sex with ghosts. Werewolves. Vampires. It’s very in right now.”
“That’s disgusting,” Patricia murmured.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I can’t write about ghosts, because I believe in ghosts and I’d creep myself out. Forget time-traveling, because I’d never be able to keep all those centuries straight. Shape-shifters are very hot, and so are vampires, and witches, but I personally know a witch, Rebecca, and I know for a fact she hasn’t had sex in years, which is not very inspiring.”
Anthony swiveled around in the desk chair. “I wanted her to write about Lizzie and
MarshaMarsha grabbed the bag off the trunk, fished out another piece of strudel, and pushed it into my hand. Patricia hopped up and ran over to snag the coffee pot. Anthony waved a tissue box.
“What did he say?” he asked breathlessly.
“I need to see David West,” I growled, and sipped my coffee.
“Absolutely,” Anthony said. “What did Brian say?”
“He said that Hirsch was a fucking idiot. I need to see my lawyer.” I looked at Patricia. “Next week?”
She nodded as she refilled my cup. “Yes. One week from today. 10:30.”
I took a deep breath. “One week. God, what am I going to do for a whole week?” I moaned.
“Well,” Anthony said uncomfortably, “you might try working a little. Your first draft is due in about six weeks. Oprah sent an e-mail asking how things were going.”
Oprah didn’t really send me an e-mail. Anthony called my agent Oprah. My agent is Sylvia Snow, and Anthony calls her Oprah because Sylvia is a fifty-ish black woman with lots of smarts and brass balls the size of the QE2.
In the late sixties, Sylvia got into Radcliff through Affirmative Action, and got out with a degree Summa Cum Laude and a big attitude. After kicking around New York publishing houses for ten or so years, she decided to go it alone. I was her first client. She sold my first book. Over the past several years, we have made each other lots of money. She now has a very impressive client list, including celebrities, internationally-known psychologists, and one romance/mystery/chick lit author who has her very own section at your local Barnes & Noble. She calls me her favorite author. I am, if nothing else, her first author.
Sylvia does not get me free houses in the Hampton’s or front row seats to sold-out Broadway shows. We don’t exchange confidences or spend hours chatting away like good buddies. She tries like hell to sell my books for the most possible money, and I try to write stuff that’s good enough for all her efforts. We get along just fine. Usually. But now she wanted an update on the new book, which was supposed to be complete and on my editor’s desk by June first, and the news was not so good.
I stared at Anthony, stricken. “What can I tell her?”
Anthony shrugged. “Mona, I don’t know what to say. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this for weeks. You kept blowing me off.”
Patricia was frowning. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’m having a bit of a problem with the new book,” I said
Patricia looked indignant. “That’s ridiculous,” she declared. “Mona, you write the best creamy thigh stuff out there. What kind of problems could you be having?”
“Well, I’m trying to write something different this time,” I said
MarshaMarsha tilted her head. “A Scottish one? I love those men-in-kilt things.” MarshaMarsha had been a fan before she ever met me, and she not only has read all my books, she is a long-time member of a romance-only book group that’s carefully scrutinized some of my most interesting love scenes. MarshaMarsha always scores big with her group when she brings me along so I can give a first-hand account of the hows and whys.
I shook my head.
“One of those supernatural romances?” she asked hopefully.
Patricia frowned. “Supernatural?”
“Yes,” I explained. “They’re actually called paranormal romances. Sex with ghosts. Werewolves. Vampires. It’s very in right now.”
“That’s disgusting,” Patricia murmured.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I can’t write about ghosts, because I believe in ghosts and I’d creep myself out. Forget time-traveling, because I’d never be able to keep all those centuries straight. Shape-shifters are very hot, and so are vampires, and witches, but I personally know a witch, Rebecca, and I know for a fact she hasn’t had sex in years, which is not very inspiring.”
Anthony swiveled around in the desk chair. “I wanted her to write about Lizzie and
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