Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Morning, Landon. Just checking in. Hoping the country air is helping cut through your writer’s block. Talk to you soon.
No pressure, by the way. I was just thinking about you.
But I’m ready whenever you are.
I’ll talk to you later.
No pressure. Sure. Pressure was all I’d felt for years now. From her. From my fans. And certainly, from myself. I texted back, letting her know I was working on things, and shuffled back out to the living room. The oatmeal had turned cold, not that it was super appetizing when it had been hot. I placed the bowl in the sink and moved to my desk, turning on the laptop. I’d lied to her. I wasn’t working on anything.
The ache in my head returned. I took a long swig of water, hoping it was just dehydration and not the start of a migraine. Flashes of the night that changed my life rocked through my brain, almost crippling me. What the hell? It hadn’t been this bad in a long time.
At twenty-one, I’d been on a rise in the literary world, having already published several novels. I was on the top of the bestsellers list; my book signings had lines out the building and around the block. Publishers were begging to work with me. Manuscripts were delivered daily, hopeful authors wanting me to take a look at their work. But with popularity comes stupidity. Or at least it did in my case.
I’d enjoyed the notoriety initially, people recognizing me wherever I went. I got the best treatment, reservations to brand-new restaurants, and spots on some of the best talk shows. It was a whirlwind, one that I rode as hard as I could. It got old quick, though, which took me by surprise. It was little things at first. Not feeling like I could make decisions for myself. Instead, I had to consider my fans. I lost all sense of privacy, especially when the paparazzi started hanging out across from my apartment, going through my trash.
I didn’t handle the stress well, turning to the bottle and enjoying the casinos. If it wasn’t for Shelby, I would have gone through all my money and then some. Thankfully, she noticed the landslide and saved me from myself in that department. But she couldn’t stop the drinking.
One night, after a quick spring rain, I’d taken off in my Ferrari with cameras on my tail. Furious, and tired of them always following me, I had taken a curve way too fast, thinking I could lose them. I rolled that car several times. I was lucky to be alive. Even luckier that no one else had been involved. I could say that now. When it had happened, I would much rather have been dead.
Recovery took months, and it was incredibly slow and painful. The people who I’d thought were friends moved on to the next big thing, and I was left with my physical therapist and my agent, Shelby, both of whom probably should have left me as well. My anger and impatience hadn’t been easy for them, but they stuck by me. I still didn’t understand why. Eventually, I walked with less pain and gained back all of my mobility. But I couldn’t bring myself to write again. I was sure there was some psychological reason; my therapist guaranteed it.
Finally, I decided I needed a change. I’d closed my eyes and pointed to a map, landing on Ashford, Tennessee. It was perfect. Small, out of the way, the simple life. I’d moved quickly, not taking too much time to think about it. I didn’t own much—the bills from the accident took almost everything Shelby had managed to hold for me. At first, she’d told me I was crazy, moving to the middle of nowhere. After I’d told her I was going no matter what, she gave in and got behind me, helping me find this cabin.
I’d moved in twelve days ago and hadn’t stepped beyond the edge of the property. That all changed today, unless I was planning to forage for berries or something. I also needed some clothes laundered and dry-cleaned. The cabin didn’t have a utility room, but I knew there was a dry cleaner in town that offered laundry services.
Punching my password into the laptop, I listened to it whir to life, displaying my home page. I ignored the emails that sat waiting for me. Instead, I opened a Word doc, hoping to write down a few ideas, maybe even string together a paragraph or two. But today, like all the other days, I sat and stared at the screen. It was like there was a disconnect from my brain to my fingers. I’d actually asked Amelia, my physical therapist, about the possibility that was true. She’d laughed, thinking I was joking at first. When she realized I wasn’t, she handed me a card for a therapist.