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Nate
“Listen, Nate, you’re a fantastic writer, but I’m not sure how much longer the company can hold out,” Emily, my publisher, warns through my computer screen. “Your contract for this book will be up soon, and so far, you’ve submittedone chapter. Which was already part of your pitch.”
Gritting my teeth, I rub my hand over my jaw and cheek, feeling my five o’clock shadow scratch my palm. Frustration, disappointment, and fatigue wash over me. “I know. I’m just... still in the middle of my writing process, you know?”
She sighs and pushes her bulky black glasses up her nose. “Is it about the money?”
“What? No, I—”
“Your series has been a big hit.” Emily crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her plush chair. “Max Kleinhas been on the bestseller list since the first book came out, and now you want a larger cut of the profits. Is that it?”
I raise an eyebrow and look around my home office. The walls are freshly painted light gray. I have a bookcase lined with first editions, and I’m sitting at an expensive writing desk made of solid wood. “No,” I repeat, trying not to roll my eyes. “It’s not about the money. I’m doing fine in that aspect. It’s mostly—”
“Oh!” She jumps forward until her face fills up the screen. “Maybe you’re not ready to say goodbye to these characters, and you’re subconsciously avoiding finishing the book since you know it’s the last in the series?” She nods her head as though she’s affirming her own conclusion. “You know, this happens to a lot of writers. I have a great therapist you could talk to! He’s worked with a bunch of my clients. Hmm, let’s see where I put his business card.” She rummages through her desk off-screen.
“Emily,” I sigh, feeling drained by this entire conversation. “I don’t need a therapist. My writing is just... slow right now.”
She eyes me wearily. “Alright, if you’re sure.” She pushes away the notion of counseling with a dismissive hand. “Regardless, we need your manuscript soon.”
“I didn’t forget.” I rake my fingers through my hair while trying to create a timeline in my head. “If I can have an extension, I’ll have it ready for you in two months.”
She clicks her tongue. “One month.”
“Six weeks,” I bargain, feeling silly for negotiating like this, yet I’m unsure what else to do.
Emily taps her index finger on her desk, and her eyes dart left and right like she’s looking at a pendulum. After a few seconds, she relents, and her shoulders slump.
“Okay,” she says before jabbing a finger at the camera. “But I’m serious, Nate. I can hold off the vultures for six weeks, not a day longer.”
“Yes, I understand.” Relief floods my body. “I’ll have the completed manuscript to you in six weeks.” I look at the time on my screen. “Right down to the minute. I’ll send my email before 4:47 p.m.”
Emily scoffs and rolls her eyes with a faint smile. “You don’t need to be that precise, kid.” Then, her look turns serious. “I’m giving you this extra chance because you’ve been my client for almost a decade, and I know what you can deliver. Don’t make me regret it, Nate. You better not fuck it up.” On that note, she ends the virtual call without any attempted send-off, and I’m left looking at my haggard reflection on my dark computer screen.
I’ve been working with Emily since I graduated from college, so I know she always means well, butdamn,that woman is intimidating. She’s twice my age, but interactions with her always leave me feeling like I got kicked in the balls. Exasperated, I drop my face to my hands. At least I won’t have to talk to her for another six weeks.
“Fu-uck me,” I groan out loud to no one. I may have received an extension, but that doesn’t help me with my problem: the biggest bout of writer’s block I’ve ever experienced. What good is having additional time if I still won’t be able to deliver a single damn page?
My words have been jammed up ever since I pitched this novel. As soon as the contract was drawn up and I gave them the first chapter, I couldn’t write another word. It’s as if I went to bed one night chock-full of ideas, yet the next morning, when I woke up…BAM!My creative channels were clogged. And the shitty part is I know what I want to write. I just don’t know how to write it.
When I experience a block, I can usually work past it. Sometimes, all it takes is a hot shower to get my creative juices flowing. Other times, it takes a few days. So I go to the gym, run, swim, or even clean out my closet. Once, I was stuck for almost two weeks, but I finally got the words streaming with a random walk around Central Park. I stumbled upon a cellist playing underneath a small bridge, and the acoustics gave her music a deep, robust sound that I could feel in my bones. After listening to her for a while, I knew exactly how to fix the plot holes I backed my story into. Since then, I’ve added classical music to my “writer’s block quick-fix guide,” but even that has failed me recently.
Nothingis working. And while it was frustrating at the beginning, it’s become worrisome now.
What if I can’t finish my novel? What if the publishing house drops me? What if I can never write again?
Sharp raps on my office door pull me out of my sulking. “Hello-oo! Anyone home?” A mocking, falsetto voice pierces the silence of the room.
“Oh, fucking hell,” I grumble, pushing away from my desk and walking to the door. When I rip it open, I’m face-to-face with my older brother, Peter. “I’m starting to regret giving you my spare key.”
Peter presses a hand to his chest with dramatic flair. “Your words wound me, dear brother.” He pushes past me into the room and collapses onto my small leather couch. “Besides, if I didn’t drop by every now and again, the only people you’d be interacting with are your publisher and the guy who delivers yourUber Eats.”
“It’s not always the same guy,” I retort with a scowl.
He quirks a single brow. “Right, because that makes itsomuch better.”
I glare at him, barely resisting the urge to stick my tongue out, as that would be childish. Even though we’re in our thirties, we’re always just one comment away from acting like obnoxious teenagers again. I suppose that’s the curse of having a brother, though.
