His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he looked at an alert he’d made for Sunday mornings.
You should be writing. Don’t be fucking lazy.
He wiped his hand over his face. He should be writing. He was trying to make a real effort to stick to a schedule and actually draft the book he’d been paid so much money to write.
He showered and threw on a T-shirt and sweats before he grabbed his laptop off the kitchen island and sat down in his only chair. He opened his document and stared at the same eight words that had been plaguing him for months.
THE ELVES OF CERADON
Book 2
By N.R. Strickland
Maybe it was the pen name that annoyed him. He’d created it when he’d been an embarrassingly naive twenty-two-year-old who’d thought he was going to be a big deal. He’d figured the pen name was necessary. Because as long as Nick had been alive, and much longer before that, Nick’s dad had been terrible with money. He stole from people, he gambled, he begged and manipulated everyone around him—especially the people who loved him—until he got what he wanted. Nick had witnessed and experienced this behavior for as long as he could remember. He’d known that if he earned a decent income from his book and his dad was aware of this fact, he would chase Nick down every day, constantly asking for money that he would simply waste. And Nick figured hey, why not make his alter ego British to throw his dad further off his scent? But then the book had tanked along with his original publisher, and Nick took it as a sign from the universe that being a novelist wasn’t in the cards. He’d buried that career and N.R. Strickland.
None of that had mattered to Marcus, though. Once he got his new job at a fancy literary agency, he took Nick’s book and ran with it. Suddenly, in January, Marcus had resold Nick’s book to a new publisher, Mitchell & Milton Inc., one of the biggest publishers in the country. And not only were they republishing The Elves of Ceradon in the fall, they’d signed Nick up for two sequels. They’d paid him a shit ton of money, and he’d received even more when the TV rights sold to HBO. It was why he could sit in this expensive-ass apartment. All that he’d dreamed of as a stupidly hopeful college senior was finally happening. His first draft of book two was due in November, which meant he had about five months left to complete it. But how the hell was he supposed to continue a story he’d given up on over six years ago? Not to mention that everyone at his publisher assumed he was British because of his bio.
He stared at the blinking cursor and felt like it was mocking him. He didn’t even know where to begin. When he’d written the first book, he’d used his own life as inspiration. Deko might have been an elf prince, which Nick most definitely was not, but they were both solitary people who were trying to leave the shit in their past behind. Nick might have been trying to distance himself from his father, while Deko was escaping a vicious, deadly species of life leeches, but still. Nick had seen himself in Deko.
Maybe too much time had passed. He’d spent too many years writing for World Traveler. His life had become a series of starts and stops, different countries, strangers and acquaintances. He knew more languages now than he did at twenty-two, but his drive and desire to be an author—to be N.R. Strickland—were gone. And that was funny, because now he definitely did need the pen name and anonymity. Not even his editor knew what he looked like. Marcus handled in-person meetings, while Nick and his editor only spoke on the phone. His editor oddly but politely never made a comment about his lack of a British accent, but Nick was sure she wondered, and he felt like he’d look stupid if he told the truth now. In the deal announcement press release, his publisher had described him as an “undiscovered, obscure British talent.” Being British added to the appeal. Nick was paranoid that they’d drop him if he came clean. And more than that, he wouldn’t take any chances on word of his new lot in life somehow getting back to his father. Because once he found out, nothing would keep him from finding Nick and sucking all the good out of his situation because that was what he always did.
Nick had no choice but to keep the truth of his identity airtight. Even if that meant severing connections he really wished he could keep.
He drummed his fingers against his keyboard, and after a moment’s hesitation, he opened a new document and began to type.
Lily—
I still can’t seem to write this book. I have no idea what Deko’s new journey should be. I bet you’d know. I bet you’d have hundreds of ideas. I sat in Union Square park again last night and thought of you. I’m always thinking of you. I miss you. I hope you don’t hate me.