“That’s disgraceful. That’s the worst kind of selling out.” Jennifer shook her head. “If the fan fiction is any good, it’ll still read like the original thing. It’s the whole voice and mood.”
“Well, to be fair, I did take it all into a new direction.” Samir shrugged. “Couldn’t help myself.”
Tawny snorted. “So even his fans are going to hate it. You can’t mess with the canon. Fans hate innovation. They want the same old over and over and over again. If it’s too different, they can’t cope.”
“You’d be surprised.” Samir glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the safety of his water bottle. “Some of the fans can get insanely creative with this stuff.”
“But not creative enough to develop a whole new canon.”
Samir crossed his arms. “If we’re enjoying ourselves and not claiming it’s original, what’s the problem?”
“I guess there isn’t. But you can’t really call yourself a writer, you know?”
Samir was about to lash out, but Maxwell patted the air with both hands and quietly said, “Come on, Tawny. That’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?”
“Not really, no.”
Maxwell sighed. “We’ll have to agree to disagree, then. Honestly, if it gets people writing, then ...” He waved his hand. “Hell, why not? Sammy’s obviously a talented writer, and maybe this helped cultivate that.” He turned to Samir, eyebrows up.
Samir nodded. “That’s where I got started, yeah.”
“See? So I don’t think it’s a big deal.”
Tawny glared at him, then smiled sweetly—yeah right—at Samir. “You’ll be bringing original stuff to group?”
“If I change the names and places, will you even know the difference?”
Oh, if looks could kill ...
“Actually.” Jennifer sat up. “Maybe that’s not a bad idea. Why don’t you change the names and places on a scene from your book, and bring that along with one of your original pieces. We’ll read them and see if we can tell what’s what.”
Maxwell nodded. “Sure, I’m on board with that.”
They all looked at Tawny. She gave a taut shrug and took another gulp of ... God, what was that shit? Then she turned to Jennifer. “Do you have anything new to read this week?”
“I do, actually.”
Twenty-five minutes later, after Jennifer had read her latest chapters and left them all feeling roughly as depressed as they had after Bambi’s mom died, they adjourned their meeting.
“Hey, Sammy.” Jennifer stopped him on the way to the door.
“Hmm?”
She met his eyes, and her expression turned a little sheepish. “Listen, I wanted to apologize. I think we all kind of dog-piled you, and that’s not really fair.”
“It’s all right. I know how a lot of people are about fanfic. That’s why I waited so long to say anything.”
She hesitated, glancing at the door that Maxwell and Tawny had just stepped through. They were outside, happily puffing away at the hand-grown, hand-rolled, hand-whatevered cigarettes Tawny always brought. Jenn turned back to Samir and lowered her voice a bit. “To be honest, I’ve written some myself.”
“You have?”
She nodded. “Mostly, um ...” Her cheeks turned an even brighter red than Anthony’s often did.
He chuckled. “That kind of fanfic, eh?”
“Yeah.” She laughed shyly. “When they added Castiel to the cast of Supernatural, they were pretty much asking for it, you know?”
Samir shrugged. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
She smiled. “Anyway, I’m sorry I was a bitch. I guess it just blew my mind that you were writing it. And novel length. I was hoping you were writing something you could publish, you know?”
Oh, if you only knew.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
After the tiny group had dispersed and Samir was on the road, he did feel better about confessing his sin. Tawny would probably never accept it, though he could be wrong. The force was strong in a multimillion-dollar check, and might even bring her Marxist convictions to the Dark Side. At least Jennifer and Maxwell were cool with it, but it was tough to say how they might feel about him getting paid for that kind of work. With or without the author’s blessing. And input. And incredible cocksuck—
Enough of that.
Once back at home, he printed out the agency agreement and went through it line by line with a highlighter and pen for notes and questions and passages he didn’t understand. Some internet searches got him to a couple of author forums discussing common pitfalls when dealing with agents, but Leanne’s contract seemed fair—nothing strange or backhanded in it as far as he could tell. He still sent it on to an IP lawyer that people in the forum had recommended for his reasonable pricing and fast turnaround, although even five minutes’ wait felt somewhat unreasonable. Should he call Anthony? Was he being a baby about all this?
He’d just wait for feedback from the lawyer and try to live as normal. A good night’s sleep would probably resolve some of his worries. Above all, he needed to function in his day job while everything else was still in the air.
Chapter 15
The phone rang at about two thirty in the morning, which was more unusual than irritating. Anthony had been working on the road map to merge Samir’s and his manuscripts and by now he had a pretty good idea how much needed to be cut, rewritten, or simply written to make the final books smooth and consistent with the rest of the series in terms of pacing and mood. Ideally, the series should feel like a seamless whole if anybody picked it up and read it in one go.
The phone kept ringing while Anthony put a couple fingers in book seven to keep track of important scenes that he had to cross-check. He fished for it with his off hand and answered. “What’s up?”
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Samir sounded way too awake for somebody whose alarm would go off in less than four hours. Worried, maybe even a little frantic. Anthony replaced his fingers in the book with note cards and put the book to the side. “Are you okay?”
“Can’t sleep. Leanne sent me the contract, and my mind has just been going nonstop, around and around, freaking out about what happens if things blow up at the last second.”
“And what caused that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe meeting my writing group.”
Ah, bad writers’ groups bred anxieties like rat fleas brought the plague. “You didn’t have it critiqued, or did you?”
“No. My fan fiction group read some chapters, but not the others.”
“Why do you still kill yourself with that second group?”
“I want to get some feedback on things regardless of my fan status?”
“Hire an editor?” Anthony chuckled. “That sounds cruel, maybe, but I’m not a fan of writing groups in general. So did they torpedo your book? The same one that’s in line for a seven-figure deal?”
“Maybe. How do I know if I’m actually a writer? If all of this falls through and all the work was for nothing and ...”
“Have you tried stopping? Do you still hear voices of people who don’t exist?”
“Yeah.”
“Commiserations, you’re a writer.”
Samir laughed, though he still sounded incredibly tense.
Anthony leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “You’ve been going to those groups for a while, haven’t you? I know the fanfic one has been around since before we started talking.”
“Yeah. And the others, we’ve been meeting since college.”
“Are they helpful?”
“Sometimes.” Samir sighed. “They kinda blew a collective gasket when I admitted tonight that I write fanfic.” He faltered, then exhaled hard. “I guess everything’s just changing so fast, and I felt weird sitting with these groups I’ve been meeting forever. Same thing happened at work today. I should be excited and bouncing off the walls over this deal, and I am, but I also feel like everything I’ve worked for in
my life is ...”
“Falling apart?”
“Not even that. I don’t think. I don’t know. Like I’ve been working my ass off for an education, a job, a house—stability, basically. And suddenly I’m afraid there’s going to be a strong wind and it’s all going to fall over like those backdrops in shitty movies.”
Anthony gazed up at the ceiling. “Wow. Yeah, I guess I can see why you’d feel like that. Especially since this is happening insanely fast. Which is probably my fault more than anything—everyone’s been sitting on go for that book for months.”
“So it’s not just me?”
“No. Book deals like this usually take months to negotiate and sort out, but this one is practically happening overnight. And as much as everyone thinks money and fame won’t change them, the fact is, it will. It changes everything.”
“It does?”
Anthony hesitated, letting his gaze drift around his custom-built office with its high-end furniture and specially designed acoustics, not to mention the framed posters of the first three Triple Moon covers. “It does, yeah. One day, you’re Joe Nobody who thinks it would be kind of cool to have a million dollars so you don’t have to sweat over bills.” God, he remembered those days. “The next, someone gives you a check with six zeroes on it, and suddenly you’re wondering if you wasted all your time doing everything you’ve ever done that didn’t earn you that much money.”
“Wow. I thought I was freaking out over nothing.”
“No, you’re not.” He leaned forward, resting an arm on his desk and lowering his head a little as if they were sharing a conspiratorial conversation in person rather than talking on the phone. “Listen, you’re not going crazy. I promise. I think I spent two solid weeks wandering around my old apartment in a daze because I had no idea what to do with myself.”
“How did you get out of that?”
“My editor sent me a bloodbath of edits, and I had to get back to work.”
Samir laughed. “Guess that would do it, wouldn’t it?”
“It does.” Anthony paused, gnawing his lip. “There’s one other thing I should probably warn you about.”
“Oh God.”
“It’s not that bad, but ... Well, you know how people say you find out who your friends are when you go through bad shit?”
Samir groaned. “I’m going to find out who needs money, right?”
“Who needs money, who has a manuscript in the works, who’s a gold digger. You might find some of your relationships change in ways you don’t expect. And it’ll be the people you least expect. So, you know, be ready for it.”
“Thanks for the warning.” There was movement on the other side, as if Samir was changing positions or trying to get comfortable. “I guess there are worse problems to have, right? How do I adjust to being a millionaire? Could be a lot worse.”
“It could be, but it’s still valid. It’s a change, and it’s stressful.”
“Yeah.” Samir paused, and when he spoke again, Anthony could barely hear him. “And then there’s jumping into a relationship at the same time.”
Anthony’s heart dropped. Jumping into a what? “Is that ... uh, are you ...”
“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.” Samir blew out a breath. “Just trying to adjust to that. And the book deal. And everything.” With a hint of a smile, he added, “Change is good, right?”
“And terrifying.” Is this a relationship? “I mean, we’re talking werewolves.”
Samir laughed. “Are you saying writers are like werewolves?”
“A little. There’s a bit of animal involved in that creative process.” Anthony sat back and relaxed; he could hear the stress drop out of Samir on the other end too. “Though I guess we proliferate less through biting or sex. Most writers I know were writers from birth, or from early childhood at least. As a kid, you believe in the dream of being a writer and it’s all fun. Then adults get hold of that dream and push you toward being sensible, which means a career and an education and a mortgage, and that’s a good thing too, because getting experience in the real world gives you something to write about and a plan B. And their intentions are good. They’re worried and want to make sure you’ll be okay. But there comes a point where we have to tell the parents in our heads that we’re grown-ups now and that as much as we value their contributions, they cannot decide what we’ll do with our lives. So if you’re worried about the next steps in your career, take it easy, spend some of the money on trips, or do something you really love that pays less or nothing. All this gives you is total freedom.”
Samir on the other end was silent, but Anthony thought he could hear him breathing. He hadn’t fallen asleep, either, there was a shift and rustling. Was he on the couch? At his desk? In bed?
“Can we travel? Together, I mean?”
“What kind of travel?”
“I have a bucket list of things to see. I was saving them up for a sabbatical once I’d paid off my condo, but ...” Samir sighed. “Or maybe I was too worried about traveling alone.”
Well, spending time together to really get to know each other sounded like a great idea. Maybe before they made any decisions about what this ... relationship was. “There’s a fan-organized con in Australia next year. We could do the whole Pacific region, plus beaches, and attend the con.”
“Angkor Wat?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wow. Sounds great.”
“Just one thing: Leanne will want book nine soon, and one or both of us will need to produce a tenth one. She’ll have my passport flagged if she gets a whiff of me trying to leave the country before this is over.”
“Sounds like a good reward.”
“It is. Let’s look into tickets once these books are at a stage where we can run things from a hotel Wi-Fi in Hong Kong.” The Hollywood types might still hunt them down regarding the screenplays and seasons, but that was something they could deal with from anywhere on the planet. They didn’t even need to know where they were—Leanne would cover for them.
“I’m looking forward to it. Anyway, sorry to pester you in the middle of the night. Guess I needed someone to talk me off the ledge.”
“Anytime. Tell you what, why don’t we just relax this weekend? No worrying about edits or writing. We could go hiking in the rainforest on Saturday if the weather holds out.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Samir sounded a hell of a lot more relaxed now. “Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
After they’d hung up, Anthony sat back again, absently turning his phone over and over in his hands as he stared at the ceiling. It had been a long time since he’d really thought about what it had been like, going from the guy scraping by on a military retirement to the Anthony M. Rawson who got royalty checks and fan mail. And he couldn’t begin to imagine what it would’ve been like to make that transition as fast as Samir was. Two weeks ago, Samir was probably just relieved he’d finished Axis Mundi. Now, it wouldn’t have surprised Anthony if he had moments where he regretted writing it at all.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He would’ve loved to send Samir a few texts about how this was the worst part, and how it would all be gravy once he got used to it, and while fame was highly overrated, it wasn’t that big of a deal. He wanted to reassure Samir that reviews were easy to swallow, being recognized on the street was fun, and that once you’d made it past the gatekeepers and scored a book deal, the pressure was off.
He wanted to, but he didn’t. Because even though he made his living writing fiction, Anthony was no liar.
***
Anthony left the car in the parking lot in front of the gym, walked past reception with a wave, and was in the weights area right on time. Ryan was finishing his own workout and looked all pumped up, with veins standing out on his arms and even his temples and forehead. He wiped his face with a towel and then his hands, before he offered Anthony a wave and a grin, but his face sank when he lo
oked Anthony up and down. “Everything okay?”
“What? Yeah.” Anthony made himself smile. “Everything’s fine. Sorry I had to bail on Tuesday.”
“No worries.” Ryan winked. “You can make it up to me tonight.”
And with that, the smile fell. “Uh, actually ...”
“Hmm?”
Anthony swallowed. “Listen, I didn’t want to do it over the phone or through a text”—even though doing it in writing would be so much easier—“but I think, uh ...”
Ryan’s huge, ripped shoulders sank a bit. “Just here for a workout, eh?”
Avoiding his eyes, Anthony nodded. “I’m sorry. I should have said something the other day, but—”
“No, it’s cool. You wanted to do it in person, so ...”
Yay, awkward silence. That was always the most awesome warm-up for a workout. At least it got his heart rate up.
Ryan cleared his throat. “So, um, I think we’re doing chest tonight, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I think so. It’s about the only thing that isn’t sore, so that must be the next muscle group I need to work.”
Ryan’s eyebrow rose. “How much of that is from working out at home?”
Anthony coughed as heat rushed into his face. “All of it, thank you very much.” Okay, most of it. Some of it. Not much. “It’s—”
“Relax.” Ryan laughed and clapped Anthony’s shoulder. “I was just giving you shit.” He paused, the humor dipping slightly. “So you’ve, um, got somebody else, then? Something serious?”
Anthony hesitated. If he started talking about Samir, he’d start rambling on like a giddy teenager, and that didn’t seem kind after he’d declared that they couldn’t sleep together anymore. He gestured past Ryan. “We should probably get started so I can make the ferry.”
“Right. Yeah.” Ryan nodded toward the office. “Let me get your folder.”
Moonstruck Page 21
