So, I turned to the internet. I researched for days on end, seeking the bottom-line answers to my questions: Which publishers sell and pay the most? Which authors publish the most, and how much do they earn? I found there were a handful of big publishers that had the lion’s share of the market. There were several top authors who made big money and churned out tons of material, some serials and some stand-alone novels. Many even paid others to write for them and put their famous names on the works like a literary assembly line—a multibillion-dollar assembly line. It was like printing money.
Then I began to read. I read only the top four authors; I saw no point in diluting the waters with lesser works. I read this rubbish day in and day out, as though I were reading ransom notes about my abducted child. When I could stand it no more, when I felt I had a grasp of it, I dove headlong into the mirage that is romantic literature. I swam in false streams of consciousness and pretense. I tarried in shallow waters of absurdity, suspended only by my own desire to conquer it. The more I wrote, the more the pages seemed to write themselves. When I did sleep, I had vivid dreams about my computer keyboard taking over while I read Chaucer and drank elderberry wine. It was almost as if I were distancing myself from my own work.
I finished my first novel in under three months. Amazingly, it was picked up immediately. It didn’t hurt that a friend from the comedy troupe had familial connections to a publishing house. The publishers loved it. They said I had a gift for romance. I had bartered my soul to the devil, and it was fantastic and horrifying at the same time.
So, I began churning out crap, month after month, year after year, although I never resorted to hiring assistant writers. I drew the line at selling out to sell-outs. I made a great deal of money and was able to move into a rather fabulous condominium in the heart of the city. I’d thought often about moving back home to Connecticut, and my mother certainly pushed this, but I’d really come to love Seattle and its mild clime. Besides, I did return home every six months or so. I also did many promotional book tours throughout the country and would meet up with my mom here or there, usually in East Coast cities.
It was there, ten years on, in my fabulously structured, beautifully appointed, ridiculously overpriced residence, which also housed many similarly recently well-to-do, that I found myself unhappy. I felt unfulfilled and lonely. My job was unchallenging and banal, and yet I’d always felt oddly indebted to it. I was dependent on it, like a drug addict or the mistress of a wealthy benefactor. I knew it was unhealthy and soul-sucking, but I just couldn’t free myself from the comfort and ease of it, not to mention the money. The money was good—very good. It was more than I’d ever imagined I’d be making. Of course, one fantasizes about writing the Great American Novel and selling millions of copies, but the chances are so slim that only a fool would think it likely.
Engulfed by my sofa, sipping wine, I reflected on a book of mine that had come out in September. It had been so well received, adored even. It was about a young woman named Tess who, when her husband leaves her, finds that her wealthy friends were never really her friends at all. Feeling abandoned and alone, she moves with her young daughter to a small town, where she hatches a plan to exact revenge on these despicable people, especially her ex-husband’s new wife, who is nothing short of horrible. Tess finds a way to ruin all their lives merely by exposing their true selves for all to see. And then, of course, she meets a tall, dark stranger, ergo …
It was the retaliation that people appreciated the most. Yes, there were long, drawn-out scenes of seduction and steamy sex. That was a given. But the revenge aspect is what everyone always commented on. They loved that. I think most everyone has someone they’d like to get even with.
Unfortunately, writing about revenge and romance did nothing for me, for I knew it was unrealistic, silly even. Thus, I felt this overwhelming void. I had no man in my life, never really had, despite being in my tardy thirties. I’d known men, of course, and they had known me. Therein lay the problem. They got to know me. They got to see that I’m nothing like Tess or any of my characters. My protagonists are all guileless and naïve, at least in the beginning. I’m none of that. I’m impertinent and snide, and sarcastic—and not in a good way!
Before I’d let myself go, I hadn’t been bad looking, pretty even, in an unconventional way, with my chestnut hair, almond-shaped green eyes, and dark skin. My features are symmetrical and soft. At five foot seven, I am neither tall nor short, and I had the good fortune of being naturally lean until I’d pushed my luck with poor habits and began to put on weight. I had no idea how much and didn’t want to know. Yes, I’d really forsaken my gifts. I felt my eyes welling with tears, and I began to weep quietly, as I so often did. I cried myself to sleep on the sofa, waking in the middle of the night when my cat, Scout, walked on my head, pulling my hair. I somehow dragged myself to my bedroom and fell asleep parallel to the pillows.
I awoke the next morning to the sound of rain on the sun deck. My eyes were nearly swollen shut and encrusted in dried tears. I stumbled to the bathroom and stripped off my clothing. Getting into the shower, I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, a sight I usually avoided.
Time had been unkind, and lack of exercise and unhealthy food hadn’t helped. I couldn’t blame my genes. Both my mother and father looked as if they could be on the cover of Town and Country even now, though Mom was sixty-one and Dad in his early to mid-seventies (I’ve never known my father’s exact age). No, genes can only take you so far, and I was like a nice car, poorly kept.
Chapter 2
Still wounded from my night of self-loathing, I made my way downstairs, through the lobby, out the main door, and over to my favorite coffee shop around the corner (not Starbucks). While standing in line, I glanced at my phone for my email messages. I have two email accounts. One is for my pen name, Paige Turner, and one is a private one that I rarely give out but use for shopping, paying bills, etc. I often complain about all the emails I receive from fans gushing about my work on my public address, but I actually never go a day without checking them. I secretly find them reassuring.
As I was reading, someone touched my arm from behind. I looked up to see a man, a man I recognized. He was a really handsome man who’d recently moved into my building. Tallish and tan, he had light-brown hair, blue eyes, a medium build, and an affable grin.
“Hello,” he said with a smile.
“Hello,” I replied timidly.
“We live in the same building, don’t we?” he asked, with a half nod of his head to indicate that the line in front of me had moved forward.
“Yes, I think so.” I was playing it cool.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, what’s your name?”
“Jill Van Doren,” I told him with a tilt of my head.
“Jeff Spiegel,” he said, still smiling. “So, how long have you lived there?”
“Five or six years. You?” I asked, already knowing the answer to be two months.
“Couple o’ months now.”
“You like it?”
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “I love my neighbors.” He was smiling more broadly now. What had he meant by that? Was that a biblical reference? Did he mean someone in particular or all of his neighbors?
“Okay,” I said, raising my brow.
“You seem to spend a lot of time at home. I mean, I don’t see you rushing off to work or anything. Are you cooking meth in there?” he asked playfully.
“Yes, I am. Please don’t tell the cops. I just can’t do any more hard time.”
He laughed and nodded at the line again. I felt a slight nervousness, and I knew from past experience that my face had flushed bright red. I looked down at my choice of clothing and was horrified: A dirty,