“How’s my favorite writer doing?” Hilda asks, sounding wary but optimistic. “Almost ready to turn in your next masterpiece yet?”
I rub the middle of my forehead, hoping that I can miraculously wake up my brain this way and failing. “Uh . . . well, about that . . . have you ever been constipated? Like for a whole week? Where you try and try to push it out, but it won’t go, or well, won’t come out? Well, I’m like that . . . but just with my writing.”
Yeah, I have quite the way with words. It’s a gift, I’m told.
Hilda thinks so too, if the ew in her voice is any indication. “That’s disgusting,” she says, and I wait for the other shoe to drop. “And concerning. Poppy, you’ve got a deadline coming up, and while I can keep them off your back a bit if you’re turning in work, right now it’s . . . you’ve given me nothing for two months now.”
“I know.”
“There’s a lot riding on this,” Hilda continues as if I don’t know and tell myself that every time I get stalled. “Your reputation is your biggest asset. Publishers will always work with someone who puts out copy, but eventually, they’re going to give up hope when you don’t do that, and then you know what happens.”
Gee, thanks. As if I didn’t know what happens at that point. I definitely needed that.
“Hil, you know—”
“But I have something that I think might help. Get you out of the house and inspired, ready to kick this book’s ass.”
“Huh?” I ask, suspicious of the dangling carrot Hilda is holding out. It’s not that I don’t trust her, but I know she’ll do anything to get me to the finish line, whether it’s good for me or not. She’s an agent first, and if I don’t succeed, neither does she.
“Look, I just got news that a sudden spot opened up at J.A. Fox’s workshop dinner. Apparently, someone forgot that, yes, sex does lead to babies, even though she writes accidental pregnancy books all the damn time.”
Whoa. I mean, I feel bad for the author, but . . . the Fox Dinner. J.A. Fox is the Grand Dame of Romance Writers. The GOAT, in my opinion. And for the past few years, she’s held workshop dinners with fledgling romance authors, talking about her illustrious career, giving writing advice, and signing copies of her latest new release. Right now, it’s The Art Thief, which is already a New York Times bestseller. Not only that, but she's going to showcase the rare painting of a beautiful woman called The Black Rose, the art that inspired the novel.
I might have been fangirling a bit—fine, a lot—when I heard about the dinner.
“Normally, you wouldn’t be up for something like this, but I fought for you to get the spot because it's local to you . . .” Hilda quickly corrects herself. “I mean, I know what a huge fan you are. I thought it’d be a good reward for finishing your manuscript. Maybe that’s not a good idea if you’re this far behind, though? Hmm.”
I’m so excited that I don’t worry about her little slight at the beginning or take offense to her dwindling faith. I’ve always wanted to meet J.A. Fox and have always looked up to her writing prowess. Whether she knew it or not, J.A. Fox was my inspiration, my mentor, my guiding light in the dark. Every time I didn’t think I was good enough, I’d remind myself that if J.A. Fox could do it, so could I. And I’ve got my own WWJD when it comes to writing. What Would J.A. Do?
“Enough waxing poetic, Poppy!” I whisper to myself before speaking up. “Hilda, OMG! Of course, I can do it. This’ll be just the boost I need to finish. You’re the greatest, I actually love you after all . . . if I can go to this workshop.”
“Hmph!” Hilda says with a full harrumph. “You don’t love me, you just love my agent benefits. But you should be loving me for putting up with your craziness and making it sound cute and eccentric to the publishing company.”
“You know I already love you for that. You’re amazing!”
“So you say. But if a catering hall chicken breast with no seasoning is what it takes for you to appreciate me . . . voila. This will be a once in a lifetime chance, and maybe a little of J.A. Fox’s