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It had started when the positive reviews flooded in. I’d been labeled everything under the sun. The next Faulkner. Vonnegut reborn. The modern man’s Twain. A breath of fresh air in a sea of stale ideas. They’d heaped the praise on me until there was absolutely no way I could ever live up to it.
Writing a book to follow Embers felt like trying to piece together a ship that was destined to sink. Every word I wrote would be judged, measured, and deemed unworthy of the ones I’d written before.
What does a man do when he’s already reached the top of the highest mountain? Does he climb the second highest mountain, knowing it will never quite live up to the first?
Lately, I’d found it was easier to dwell on the criticism. At least I could improve from there. Except I’d stumbled upon a particular voice that took things to an entirely different level. They called themselves “Monster Milker” and had an entire blog devoted to what appeared to be a borderline psychopathic hatred of me.
I’d subscribed and read every post. It was therapeutic in the same way it felt good to get in a fight when I was pissed beyond reason. The blog was full of shit, of course. Monster Milker’s bread and butter tactic was to take passages of mine out of context, splice them together with other sections of the book, and draw insane conclusions. I grudgingly admired what seemed to be some unspoken code of honor in the posts, though. Monster Milker never fabricated anything outright. It was a game of smoke and mirrors to make me look as bad as possible, and I had to admit they were a master of the game.
My phone rang. I saw Nilla’s name and sighed, answering. She always did video calls, no matter how many times I told her I didn’t need to see up her nose while we spoke.
Sure enough, she had the phone at waist height while she was moving through a busy office space, from the looks of it. “Sebastian,” she said, voice sounding distant and distorted through all the background noise.
“If it’s not important, I—”
“It’s important,” she said. “I just got out of a meeting with your publisher. They’re saying if you don’t deliver them at least a few chapters soon, they’re going to enforce the full contract you signed.”
“Meaning?”
“You’d need to go on another national tour. Speaking appearances. Podcasts. Radio interviews. They’re saying if you aren’t going to give them new material, you need to get your ass out there and promote Embers.” She glanced down, smiling quickly. “Their words, not mine.”
“What are my options?”
“Write some chapters?” Nilla suggested.
“You and I both know how that’s going.”
“Well, I’d do your best to find a way. I’m really not looking forward to having to clean up your messes across the country again. That was… not fun.”
I glanced at my blank screen, then turned my camera to face it. “See that? That’s how much I’ve got for them.”
Nilla sucked in air through her teeth. “That doesn’t look like much, Sebastian.”
“It’s a blank fucking page,” I said.
“I was trying to phrase it a little more delicately. But yes. That’s a blank page. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No,” I said. “Except getting these assholes off my back. I can feel them all breathing down my neck for more. It’s suffocating.”
“Maybe you need to get out a little. You lock yourself in there and bang your head against the wall every day. That’s clearly not working. There’s actually a writer’s retreat in a week. It’s in a cabin near Mount Rainier in Washington.”
“Hm,” I said thoughtfully. I had to admit I’d always had a soft spot for cabins in the mountains.
“It’s super pretty,” she said. “They’ve got a beautiful cabin set up. They have room for like a dozen people to stay there at once. It’s supposed to be a creative soup kind of thing.”
My impulse was to shoot down the idea, but I had to admit I was desperate. A change of scenery might help. “Book it. But book out the entire cabin.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding a little crestfallen. “You’re sure that’s a good idea?”
“Do it. If some of the rooms are already booked, you can contact the authors and buy them out.”
She swallowed but nodded. Despite her faults, Nilla always got things done. It was why she’d managed to keep her job with me for so long.
“I’ve got to go,” I said suddenly. I hung up the phone and set it down on my desk.
I rubbed my temples when I was left alone again with the empty word document in front of me.
I came in this room every day, stared at the page, and beat the shit out of myself in my head for failing to do something so simple.
