My mobile rings, jolting me out of my thoughts. Honestly, there’s only a few people who call me regularly and I have to say I don’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment.
I go to my bedside table where it’s charging and look at the number.
My heart goes cold.
It’s my agent, Jana Lee.
I’m terrified of her.
I stare at it for a few moments, thinking. If it were my mom or dad I’d wait for them to text or leave a voice message, but I can’t ignore Jana.
I pick it up.
“Grace speaking.”
“Grace, darling, how are you?” Jana’s throaty voice comes through. “How’s the writing coming?”
She doesn’t even take a moment before she barrels right into it. That’s her, straight to the point, even if it knocks you over.
I can lie. I’ve been lying for the last couple of months, essentially as soon as Jana signed me as her client. But I’m not sure if she’ll let it fly this time.
“Uh,” I stammer.
“Please, please, please tell me you’ve made progress. Tell me you at least have a quarter of the book done.” This is more of a command than anything.
“I do,” I lie. I glance guiltily at the laptop on my desk, as if it’s going to jump up and protest.
Jana sighs heavily. “Grace, listen to me. I need to know the truth. I need to know if you can finish this manuscript by September first. If you can’t, then we’re in some serious shit here with the publishers and I’m not about to put my neck on the line for you. I need to know now so I can either have the deal cancelled or we can move forward, as it is in your contract.”
This was what I was afraid of. I always thought it was dumb luck that I managed to land Jana as my agent, after my last agent, Maureen, dropped me. For Maureen, Robyn was always the one she believed in. Robyn was her star. For the last six years that Robyn and I wrote the Sleuths of Stockbridge series, the only contact I even had with Maureen was through Robyn.
Then, when Robyn died, Maureen decided she couldn’t represent me. Gave me the excuse that she was grieving, but I was grieving too.
I still am.
Jana represented another author friend of mine, Kat Manning, who put out her feelers, managed to snag me a phone call with her. I even took the train down to London to have a meeting.
Here’s the thing about Jana Lee: she’s as infamous for her brash, bold, volatile personality as much as her talent in picking and nurturing writers. She’s one of the most, if not the most, powerful literary agents in the U.K. She’s been responsible for everything from bestsellers to Pulitzer prize winners, and for whatever reason, she decided to take me on, even when I didn’t have a book to show for it. All I had was a proposal, a three-page outline for a women’s fiction novel, and she managed to sell it for a nice sum.
Now, of course, I have to follow through and write the damn thing.
Which has been next to impossible.
Time for me to finally admit it.
“I don’t want the contract cancelled,” I tell Jana. I need it. I need it to not just give me money to pay my rent since royalties are so unreliable, but to prove myself as a writer. To prove I can do this without Robyn’s help, that I can do it alone. “I’ll make it work. It’s just been … harder than I expected.”
Jana’s silence is deafening. Finally she says in a clipped voice, “What seems to be the problem? Writer’s block?”
I don’t think Jana gets very personal. In fact, she doesn’t know much about me at all and I know barely anything about her. Everything so far has been strictly business and she’s only mentioned Robyn a handful of times. Being honest feels like it comes with a price. I don’t want her to think less of me.
“I guess so,” I tell her hesitantly. “Fear, really. Fear that the book won’t be good enough, fear that I don’t know how to write without Robyn.”
More silence. I can hear the fridge in my kitchen kick on.
“You can’t edit a blank page, Grace,” she says after a moment.
“I know. I just can’t seem to…” I trail off, wondering how to explain. “Aye, I guess it’s just writer’s block then.” Seems easier to say it