Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
She’s looking at me with uncertainty. “What about Essie? Why is she pretending to write these books? It’s… it’s… a betrayal of trust!”
I sigh. “It is. I can’t deny it. But it’s not Essie’s fault. It was my idea.”
“But why would you two do that?”
“Because I really, really, really thought it would fizzle. And then… I got invited to a book signing. My first one. You know what that’s like. And it was Romance Round-Up. Remember that one? They haven’t had it in several years now, but back in the day, when I was brand new at this, it was the biggest. I wanted to go. It was flattering that so many people loved my books. But I was already pretending to be a woman. I was using Essie’s pic for my profile. I was…” I let out a long breath. “I mean, honestly, I was embarrassed. I went from writing cool, socially relevant cyberpunk to… non-stop sex scenes. And never, not once in my life, did I ever picture it turning out this way. I was still very, very sure that I would be a great science fiction writer. And one day, seventy-five years from now, a couple—who are thinking about maybe, possibly, dating—would be discussing books and one of them would ask, ‘What is your favorite science fiction book?’ and the other would reply, ‘Alien Alliance,’ because at that time, seventy-five years into the future, it would be a classic. Like Starship Troopers.”
Cordelia’s eyes go a little distant and dreamy. But just as quickly, the distrust is back. “Hmm. You’re a wordsmith. And you know what they say about wordsmiths?”
I have no clue, so I just shrug.
“Same thing they say about actors. They’re acting. That’s what they do. Right? It’s their job. They are literally paid to pretend.”
I point to myself. “You’re accusing me of what, exactly? Being too persuasive?”
My tone is a little bit rough here. I’m trying not to be annoyed. I feel like maybe I don’t have the right, because let’s face it, all of this is my fault. But I’m struggling. She’s not listening to me.
“What about the stealing?”
I sigh. “What stealing?”
“You stole Leslie’s book ideas.”
“I did not.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you did steal her ideas. And that’s why you wanted to read my ARC, isn’t it?”
OK. Now I’m angry. She has crossed a line. “For fuck’s sake, Cordelia. You’re accusing me of shit that never happened. Raylen Star was a great author in 2012. Back then, erotica was all new. You could write any story at all and make it on to the charts. But she’s a bitch, and a hack, and has almost zero talent at actual storytelling. That’s why no one reads her now. She has no imagination. The reason I’m still here”—I point at the hotel in general—“the reason this is my convention, isn’t because I stole some pathetic story idea eight years ago. It’s because I’m a damn good romance writer.”
Then I slap my hands on the table, get up, and walk out.
Hot Lips and Husky Voices is, and has always been, one thing: An opportunity for the authors of the various books which have been turned into audio formats to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over their chosen narrators and thus allow the audience a chance to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ as well.
The intention of such a panel, of course, is to simply highlight and amplify the various components that go into a multi-pronged approach to being a successful romance author.
Or, at least, that’s the intention of everyone on the panel today except ... Raylen Star.
No, Raylen Star’s purpose in being here is to steer the conversation in the direction of getting SS to talk as much as possible about her narrator. Her brother, Steve. The one known, in a not-so-secretive secret, as Tank Watson.
To be clear: Leslie does not think that she will be forcing some grand reveal or disrupting the fabric of the universe in any way. But she does think she can make life awkward for Steve, and for Essie, and in so doing claw back at least a tiny portion of what she believes has been stolen from her over the years. Her good name. Her reputation. Her success. Her dignity.
And, even though the loss of those attributes is due entirely to the choices Leslie Munch has made for herself, one would be unlucky in attempting to get her to recognize that. For, you see, Leslie Munch’s great, tragic flaw is a flaw that plagues many who find themselves in downward spirals from which they cannot break free. Simply: Lack of self-awareness. And, in Leslie’s case, a touch of paranoia.
A paranoia that is sure not to be ameliorated by what happens next...
“Yes, hi,” says a woman in the audience, holding a microphone and addressing the authors seated before her. This question is for Raylen? Raylen, I’ve noticed that you don’t really release audio versions of your work. Why is that?”