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Me: I’m sure she’ll love it.

Cathie: Stop being so goddamn optimistic. We both know neither of us is.

Me: I just know how talented you are. I bet those chapters are dipped in gold.

Cathie: And now you’re delusional.

Cathie: But thank you. I needed that after today’s disastrous sprinting session.

Cathie: Though why I keep trying to keep up with your word count is beyond me.

Me: It’s not a race. You got words on the page today. That’s reason enough to celebrate.

Cathie: If I haven’t said it before, let me say it now—I fucking love you.

My smile returns, though it’s a little weaker than before.

Me: I love you too.

Cathie: Same time next Monday?

Me: You got it.

Cathie: Love you, M.

Me: Love you, C.

The chat window goes quiet, and a second later, Cathie logs off altogether, leaving me alone with nothing but my thoughts and the silence of my apartment.

I push back from my desk and stretch, grateful to finally stand after spending the last four hours glued to my chair.

Back pain and stiff neck aside, this is still my favorite way to start the day. Wake up, shower, coffee, then ass in seat so I can get the words down before the rest of the world has a chance to interrupt.

It’s everything that comes after that I struggle with. The business side of being an author. The Zoom calls. The endless back-and-forth emails with my agent, publisher, publicist, PAs, content coordinators, and graphic designers. The marketing. The deadlines. The constant pressure to be visible, to always be online, always available.

The only part that I never struggle with? My readers. I love replying to their comments, watching them gush over my stories in videos, seeing the beautiful graphics they create, and smiling every time someone shares a photo with one of my books in hand. Any chance I get to show them how much I appreciate them never feels like work.

My stomach knots at the thought that I won’t get to do any of that this afternoon. Instead, I have to head into Midtown Manhattan to meet Lauren in a couple of hours.

I adore my editor. Leaving the comfort of my own home? Not so much.

Cathie isn’t wrong. I am a bit of a hermit. If I’m being brutally honest with myself, I’m more of a recluse. If it weren’t for the people who live rent-free inside my head—and the readers and author friends I interact with online—my world would be painfully small.

At least Cathie’s characters spend their time having sex.

Mine just keep murdering each other.

Story of my life.

After a quick change out of my sweats and an even quicker second cup of coffee, I bundle up in my scarf, gloves, and coat before forcing myself out the front door.

By three o’clock, I’m stepping into Lauren’s office, only to find her practically buzzing with excitement.

“You did it again!” she says, beaming as she rushes toward me. “I never saw that plot twist coming.”

Before I can react, she wraps me in a hug.

Lauren is a hugger. I am not.