Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
While I know that what Mercy just said is not in any way directed at me, I can’t help but hear it that way. And all of a sudden, I really feel like I don’t have any business being on this panel. I should be in the audience, asking questions. How am I going to get a big, fancy agent and a publishing deal if I don’t even know how to balance A and B? I go to put my finger in my mouth, but realize it’s bandaged and switch to a different finger.
“That’s great,” Frizzy Moderator says with a nod and a smile. “Somebody else?” Again, hands lunge upward at the ceiling. “Yes. You.” She points at an older woman. And I don’t just mean older than Babydoll Tee. I mean older than just about everyone. Older than Sheila, my landlady. She wears a baseball cap that looks to have homemade embroidery on it.
It reads ‘Ride-or-Die Grandma.’
The PA hands Ride-or-Die Grandma the mic. Her voice is stronger than I anticipated, with a strong Southern accent. Maybe Kentucky? Unsure. I don’t know why it matters. I nibble at my fingernail.
“Well,” Ride-or-Die Grandma starts, “that’s all well and good, but here’s my thing: I can’t be out here waiting for a book for however long. I mean, sometimes I feel like y’all’ll start a story, end it on a whopper of a cliffy, and then go on to another book before y’all done finished the first one. I ain’t got all the time in the world, ladies. Y’all gotta write faster or something.”
There is a smattering of laughter as Ride-or-Die Grandma hands the microphone back and sits down. The moderator attempts to recap as I feel myself starting to hyperventilate. That’s what I just did. I took a break from my series to write Filling the Gap! Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I’m doing everything wrong!
Audrey Saint looks my direction, then leans over to me, covers my mic and whispers, “You okay?”
“Mm-hm,” I squeak out in a high-pitched lie as I now nibble my thumb.
“So, I guess we’ll call this particular rant ‘unfinished series.’ Anyone want to field this one?” the moderator asks the panel. Winter Page is the one who chooses to pick up the baton.
“Uh, well,” she starts, leaning into her microphone, “I mean, I appreciate the question, and I know it can be frustrating to wait, but sometimes it’s just unavoidable. Like with book five of my series Seven Miles from Hope, that one was supposed to come out much sooner than it did, but I had to have an emergency appendectomy and then one of my dogs got sick and… whatever, doesn’t matter, there were just some things that got in the way. Y’know, life. And that slowed it down. So, I mean, those things happen too. I feel like I can speak for most writers when I say that we never want to drag it out. We’re usually as excited as you are to find out what happens!” Another round of chuckles. “But occasionally, it can’t be helped.”
“Can I say something?” That’s Eden Le Fay. The moderator nods, encouraging her to talk. “Yeah, um… to jump off what Winter’s saying, we’re not fucking machines, y’know? We’re people. With real lives and shit. We’re not just these fuckin’ plug-and-play automatons who can crank out what-the-fuck-ever on demand. So, maybe remember that shit too.”
There is a beat as everything quiets down and a subtle but extremely noticeable shift in energy rolls across the room like a fog.
You do not fuck with Eden Le Fay.
“Great!” says the moderator, trying to steer things back into a jolly direction as quickly as possible. “Next question!” Hands go up. Frizzy points. “Yes. In the blue blouse.”
The woman who stands up looks friendly. Put-together. Pleasant. Like the kind of person you’d want as a neighbor. “Funny you should say it that way,” she says, taking the mic and getting a scolding look. “Because my rant is specifically for you, Eden.”
Oh, God.
“Why does there have to be so much swearing in your books?”
Or not. Or you don’t want her as your neighbor. I stand corrected.
“I’m sorry?” Eden responds, like she might have just had an aneurysm.
“I read all your series. And you’re very, very good. But why do your characters have to swear so much all the time? There’s just so much filthy language, I feel like.”
“Bitch,” Eden starts—oh, no. Oh, God—“I write dark erotica. How the fuck do you expect the characters to talk?”
“I just—” the woman stammers.
“All right, let’s all—” The moderator tries to grab the reins.
“So, you’ve read all my series, and that’s the part you’ve got a problem with? You’re cool to read about people fucking in all kinds of fucked-up ways, but you don’t want them to say ‘fuck’ when they’re fucking? Or something? Like, fucking really?”