Seven figures. One author earns that. Actual millionaire money, for writing books on her laptop in her PJs. Okay, I’m sure only a tiny minority reach those dizzy heights, but it seems plenty of others are earning six figures. Buying houses. Quitting day jobs. Supporting their families, all from stories they wrote themselves and published independently.
I wouldn’t even need to earn that much. But if I could make enough to survive on, doing something I love, being my own boss... No more reporting to anyone. No more taking the fall for decisions I disagreed with. Full creative control over my work.
The idea sends a little thrill through me. I could actually do this.
Then a voice pipes up in the back of my head:For every success story, there must be a hundred failures you’re not reading about.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself. What’s with the imposter syndrome? Why can’t I believe I’m capable of this? Lachlan does. Ifhethinks I can do it, why don’t I? I used to read submissions from debut authors all the time. I know what a good story looks like. So why can’t I trust myself to write one?
“Blair!” Finn calls. He’s standing by the shore now, scanning the waves like a pint-sized marine biologist. “See any otters yet?”
“Not yet, but keep looking, buddy. They’re sneaky.”
I’m just beginning to picture it—a life of writing in the mornings, walking this beach in the afternoons, answering to no one but myself—when my phone buzzes.
Clara Levinson.
I blink. Clara is a publicity associate at Everhart & Greene. I always liked her, but I never thought I’d hear from her again. Not after my very public fall from grace.
Hey Blair,
Hope you’re doing okay after . . . well, everything.
I was at a networking event last night and got chatting with Nora Cartwright from Cedar House. She asked after you, specifically whether you might be available for work.
I’m not sure what she has in mind, but thought you might be interested. Let me know if you want me to pass along your email.
I stare at the message, my heart doing a little skip. Cedar House. A real player in children’s publishing. I’ve always respected Nora Cartwright, their editorial director.
I assumed I’d burned every bridge. What could Nora possibly want with me? Maybe she needs freelance help—some remote editorial work?
Well, there’s no harm in finding out more, right?
I tap out a quick reply.
Thanks, Clara. Yes, please do pass along my email. Appreciate you thinking of me.
I send it then just sit there staring at the screen, trying to process what this might mean. Maybe my career in children’s publishing isn’t dead in the water after all.
“Blair!” Finn’s excited voice snaps me back to the present. “Do you think an otter and a boy couldreallybe friends?”
I slip my phone into my pocket and give him my full attention. “It’s not impossible. When I was looking up otters for our story, I found this documentary calledBilly & Molly. It’s set in Shetland.”
“That’s in Scotland!” Finn says knowledgeably.
“It is! A man named Billy found a young otter who’d lost her mom. He fed her until she was strong again, and they became friends. But before winter, Billy stopped feeding her so she could learn to fend for herself. After that, she visited him less and less... until she stopped coming altogether.”
Finn’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Is that what happens inourstory? The boy never sees the otter again?”
“Well, sometimes life surprises you. Molly did come back one day. And she was pregnant.”
His face lights up. “She came back! Will your otter come back too?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Finn grins, cheeky as anything. “Then you’d better get writing.”
That evening, I’m hanging out by myself in the granny flat. Well, correction, Gerald’s here too.
