CHAPTER 1
Andrea Simmons closed her laptop, pressed down on the lid until the screen bowed from the pressure, and screamed at the top of her lungs. Beating the desk, she tried to rip at the smooth wooden surface with her nails, but only succeeded in breaking two and cracking a third. On the screen was her latest post, announcing the release of Imagine Us in Heaven, the eighth romantic suspense novel featuring Teresa Vincent, investigative journalist with a steamy past. It had 4,987 likes and had been shared nearly that many times. Preorders were through the roof, and reviews already projected it as a bestseller–one of the books of the year on a wide variety of sites. Andrea knew it was the saddest piece of crap she’d ever attached her name to, and knowing that her agent, Sylvia, gushing over the advance reviews, would be calling for the next in the series, made her stomach clench as if she’d been punched.
And it wasn’t the story. It wasn’t the characters. It just felt disconnected, like something she’d written with no investment at all. She had always loved the characters. The twists and turns of the plots, the relationships, and the backstories. But, somewhere in the pages of this book, she’d lost that connection, and now she couldn’t remember what it had been like. Had it ever really been there, or was she just fooling herself?
There was a knock on the door of her office. She wanted to scream again, to tell whoever was there to fuck off and leave her alone, but she knew it was Jenifer. There was no way she could take this out on Jen; all this was on her. The famous author, horrified by the success of her own work, and unable to stop the relentless progress of her literary bullshit train. Every new addition to the series had brought more stress, more demands from her agent, editor, reviewers, and fans. The fans who had, up until this moment, been her companions in that other world, sharing the fantasies she felt slipping away. She’d forgotten her dreams and felt destined to be remembered for a short time, for work that never mattered on any level deeper than momentary escape, and then forgotten. She’d been living two lives, one in a romantic adventure land and the other one lost in a hot wash of frustration. Now one of them seemed to have vanished
“Go away,” she said. Not loud enough.
The knocking continued.
“Fuck,” she said. After a moment, she added, “Come in.”
The door opened. She felt the shift in air pressure, heard the soft tread of slippered feet. She didn’t look up, even when she felt Jen’s hands on her shoulders, working at her taut muscles and trying to pry loose the anger.
“Too loud?” she asked.
“What’s wrong?”
Andrea shook her head. No answer. Her chair was pulled back slowly, and she allowed it. Jen slipped between her and the computer, hit the power button and brought the screen back to life. Jen scrolled through the comments on the post, hesitating now and then to take in details.
“Publishers Weekly says it’s your best yet,” Jen said. She kept her voice steady, but Andrea caught the subtle humor. “A rare talent.”
Andrea pushed back, turned, and stood. “I can’t do it anymore,” she said. “I can’t sit through another round of talk shows, book clubs, vapid reviews from people who wouldn’t know a good book if I hit them in the head with it. Believe me, in my mind I have done that so many times I’m afraid I’ll wake up on air and realize it finally happened. I just can’t.”
“Maybe it’s time to pull a James Patterson,” Jen said. “Who would know? We could slip off to an island paradise and just watch the dollar signs flip. You’ve said it before; almost anyone could write this.”
Andrea dropped her head into her hands and let out a breath so deep it sounded like leaking steam.
“I never really meant it like that; I don’t want to quit,” she said at last. “I want what I write to feel important. I want to prove that it’s not just the series, and the name and ‘brand’ selling books. When I created Teresa Vincent, I was invested in her. When I wrote those early books, it was as if I stepped into her world, felt her pain, shared her victories. What if
all of that was just me indulging myself? I mean, what if I never had any talent? What if I hit the right thing on the desk of an agent and it was all a cosmic accident? Would any of those readers recognize it if someone else wrote the books? Especially this one? I’m afraid of that answer. I want to know, but the idea of knowing terrifies me.”
“Ten million books sold and imposter syndrome?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I just want to do something,” Andrea waved her hand at the computer screen, “not this.”
“It’s not like you need the money,” Jen said. “If you don’t want to do the next book, just tell them. A year off? Six months? Blackmail them into publishing whatever you do in the meantime under a pseudonym? You don’t have to work another day to be comfortable for the rest of your life.”
“But I’m not. Comfortable, I mean. I’m going slowly crazy. It’s as if there is nothing left of what I set out to be, just a ‘Stepford Wives’ word-producing automaton. I’m going to ask for that break, to do something different. Is it weird to need validation when your face pops up on digital billboards in Times Square every time a new book comes out? And if I do stop, what about those characters? What about the world I’ve invested so much of my adult life in?”
“Of course, it’s weird,” Jen said, “but what’s wrong with weird? You coming to bed?”
“In a while. I’m going to do some surfing, maybe some research. I need to find some sort of answer to this. I won’t be too long. Probably.”
“I could do it, you know,” Jen said. “Write those books for them, I mean. I’ve edited them all. I’ve brainstormed them with you. . . it might even be fun.”
Andrea fell silent for a moment.
“That might feel even weirder than having someone else do it. What if you were the one with the ideas, and the talent, and I’ve just been hitting the keys?”
“I thought you didn’t care about the reviews and the fame.”
Andrea frowned, then stuck out her tongue.
Jen laughed and kissed her
on the top of her head.
“I won’t wait up,” she said.
Andrea nodded, but she was already gone, barely aware of the transition. Jen closed the door as quietly as she could.
***
Andrea glared at her computer screen and tried to come up with a search term that would inspire her. She avoided anything that might lead her back to romantic suspense, but she had no idea what she was looking for. She’d read a wide variety of books by other authors, biographies, books about writing, novels, collections, horror, science fiction, and fantasy. She’d even found some fan fiction sites that intrigued her over the years, but she knew they weren’t what she was after – what she needed. There were fan fiction sites writing about Teresa Vincent. She needed something absolutely unique.
She searched social media for “cutting edge” authors. She looked for trends. She read free stories on a dozen online markets. Nothing felt real. Nothing touched her. Then, just before clicking in on the thirteenth online story, the words “writers prompt” caught her attention. The story she’d been about to read had been inspired by someone else’s post. A snippet of prose, or an image, a plot twist, something that unlocked the words and allowed them to flow freely.
She closed all but her browser window which was waiting for a new search. She typed quickly.
My writing prompts
The screen filled instantly with thousands of hits, most of which said “does not include ‘my’” – with a prompt to search only for the exact phrase. She clicked the only link. That web page was titled (ironically) “My Writing prompts.”
She waited as the site loaded. There was the usual warning about collecting cookies, which she accepted. The screen flickered, and a simple form appeared in the center of a black screen.
LOGIN – or CREATE ACCOUNT?
She clicked create account and a new screen appeared. She frowned. There were none of the usual suspects among the fields she was presented. No username. No password.
First question: Are you a talented writer?
There was a button for
YES. There were no other choices. She hesitated over the YES. A blue circle appeared across the black background. The blue began to disappear at the top, spinning clockwise around the circle and leaving only the black. She wanted to press the button on her mouse and move to the next screen, but she was paralyzed. Was she a talented writer? What did she have to show that would prove it? The Teresa Vincent novels? The short stories in literary magazines she’d written in college that made her cringe every time she re-read them? The bits and pieces of things she’d collected and recorded in journals that had never gotten past the point of ideas? She blinked and realized the blue had completely disappeared. She was about to hit the back key and return to the main screen, thinking it had simply timed out, when the screen shifted again.
“ENTER SAMPLE” was at the top of the screen. Beneath that in smaller type, “Write something that is real. Write what you want to say to the world.”
Then there was a large blank text box. Andrea stared at it. She’d come to the site to get prompts, not provide them. She felt unprepared and oddly vulnerable. Her fingers found the keys, and she began typing the first thing that came to mind. “Alexis Jones was a tall, thin woman with jet black hair and an icy smile.”
The words disappeared from the screen. Another circle, larger than the first one, appeared to the right of the text box. This one was white, but began slowly turning red, moving steadily around from the top like the first. Andrea closed her eyes, flashed back to the first question, then to the review of Imagine Us in Heaven, and began to write.
***
Every face you see is a mask and every face you present to the world is also a mask. Some people are experts at shifting from one to the next. The face they show you won’t be the same as the one
your husband or wife sees. They navigate rooms, features flickering from one countenance to another so quickly it’s seamless and impossible to track.
Most people are not so adept. Their masks will linger and give away secrets. Features slip into place that present them to the world in ways that don’t feel real, ...
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