Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“You think that’s the solution to everything.”
“It’s never not been,” he admits, and I can tell he believes it. “Your problem, Amanda, is that you’re succumbing to the pressure of success.”
“The pressure of success?” I repeat. “You really are delusional in the mornings.”
“Hear me out,” he says, licking his lips. “Look, when we wrote our class project together, we were so focused on just getting it done and producing something and fucking surviving it that neither of us really thought too much about the final grade.”
“Speak for yourself,” I tell him, even though he’s somewhat right. Even though I cared deeply about getting an A and acing it, I also knew I would be graded on how well my part was done and the act of completion, rather than the quality of the story as a whole.
“Then,” he continues, “we decided to have a go at Stripper and see if we could really do the whole erotica self-published ebook thing. There was no pressure at all—it was, for all intents and purposes, an experiment. It was for fun. It was a challenge. And it led to some pretty amazing discoveries. Like you’re phenomenally good at not only writing about cock but getting it too.”
I let out a snort.
“And you’re incredibly cute when you make those noises,” he adds.
I try not to take that as a compliment. “Anyway…”
“Anyway, now that we’ve proven we can do it, now that we’re committing to do another book, to make the fucking big bucks, to make this something real…the pressure is on. And I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who takes on pressure like a job itself. It’s like if you don’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, if you’re not grim and serious and suffering, then it’s not real.”
I swallow and gaze out the window, wishing I made coffee to go. The coffee at the ferry terminal is heinous and I’m going to need some sort of stimulant to handle all of this. “I can’t help it if I take it seriously,” I say quietly. “If it’s going to be my career, I have to take it seriously. Stephen King said that writing isn’t something to be approached lightly.”
“Stephen King is also a liar.” I frown at him. “He’s a liar for a living, all authors are. So are we.”
Except we’re acting out our written fantasies, I can’t help but think.
“Look,” he goes on, his tone softening. “I’m not saying we can’t take this seriously. I think we already are. We’re going about it the right way. But at the same time, we’re writing about billionaires and strippers. Respect for the written word and all that, but you have to have fun too, find the joy, and most of all, forget about everything else. Forget about the books. Forget about the future. Writing is about the now, is it not? It’s about putting down words and creating worlds and really, that’s it. Worrying about how the book will do, how it will be received, whether it will all be worth it is just a waste of time and takes away from the creation of it all.”
He pauses and I can feel his eyes studying me underneath this glasses. My face, reflected in the lenses, looks tired and pained. “I agreed to this trip because I think it’s a great chance for you to let go. To forget that the whole world exists. Let’s not use our phones. No internet. We won’t talk about the future or the past. It will just be about you and me and the book and that’s fucking all.”
Wow. I know he was just telling me not to take things so seriously, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so serious. I wish there wasn’t something so incredibly attractive about this, the way he’s taking charge and acting like…an adult.
“Okay,” I say, my voice soft. I attempt to smile and lighten the mood. “I thought maybe you agreed to this weekend because of sex.”
“There are more things to life than sex,” he says. “I think writing might be one of them.”
I try not to look shocked that he actually just said that. I hate to admit it but this man is doing a pretty good job of keeping me on my toes.
Thirty minutes later we end up at the ferry terminal in Swartz Bay, barely squeezing onto the ferry with our heinous BC Ferries’ coffees in hand, one step up from gas-station garbage. There are some giant cruise-ship sized ferries that head to Vancouver and the mainland, but the one that goes to the island is like an open barge. There are some small indoor lounges at the side where walk-on passengers can sit, protected from the elements, and there are some seats above that on the upper deck, but for the most part the ferry is a raft topped with parked cars.