1 Chapter 1: Nothing Is As It Should Be

Cami

Since I was a little girl, all I’d ever wanted to do was pen stories. Make believe and give people a reason to fall in love with my escapes I give them. But lately, something is missing.

After all, how can a girl write about love if she’s never actually experienced it herself? That’s not entirely true, I suppose. I thought I’d experienced it but how so very wrong I was.

So. So. Wrong.

I’m running out of material to write about and it’s showing. One can only watch so many romantic comedies and, well, porn for those special scenes that I haven’t had personal experience with in so long I have practically forgotten what it’s like, before it all blends together and turns to mush.

Mush.

That’s what I’m writing right now. The equivalent of mushy oatmeal.

I wish I could blame it on my ex-husband, however it can’t be denied that my poor writing was happening long before he dropped the divorce bomb on me.

Sarah: I hate it. I’m sorry I know that’s super harsh. Gah. I suck as a human. I DON’T PEOPLE WELL! Want me to pet your head and tell you you’re pretty? Because you SO are. But this book? My friends who have been reading my stories and giving me feedback for years open up in our Messenger group, my stomach sinking more and more with each message I read.

Jessica: What are you thinking?

Tiffany: Uh. I’m confused. Is this the real manuscript or is this some sort of joke?

Brenna: No. Just. NO. Come on, Cami. You can do better than this.

No, actually I can’t do better, thank you very much. My sweet, gentle, friends who are honest to a fault when they read through my chapters early are not my favorite people right now. However, they aren’t wrong. I’ve put out nothing but crap the last three books and I was hoping I could finally turn it around. Alas. Nope.

I read back through their feedback in my messages, wipe away a tear, stare out my office window and try not to panic.

My phone rings and I answer without looking.

"It’s fine." The voice on the other end is from my best friend Gretchen from the time I was nine. She also reads everything I write before anyone else and gives me feedback and is in the group chat so read everything I just did. Brutally honest feedback.

"Should I remind you that the first words you said to me were that you hate it?"

"I didn’t mean that. Well, I did, but not really."

I laugh at her trying to be nice but failing. "Gretchen, it’s fine. It sucks. I know it. You know it. I’ve lost my mojo. I’m washed up. Done."

"Don’t say that. You know that’s not the truth."

"Don’t I? Go take a look at some of the reviews of the last three books I’ve published and then try to tell me I’m lying."

She pauses just long enough that I know she’s about to placate me with words to try to make me feel better all while not outright lying to me. As my best friend, she not only reads my books, she also reads almost every single review. She’s gone on tangents before when a reader made it loud and clear that they felt my last release was lackluster at best, a bore, snooze-fest, and that I should have given up my career in publishing years ago. "It’s just that your earlier stuff was so good, Cam-Cam."

I groan at her childhood nickname for me. She only uses it when she’s trying to make me feel better. "Don’t Cam-Cam me, Gretch. It’s condescending and you know I hate it. I am fully aware that my earlier books were better. It’s not as if I’m an idiot. However, I don’t know how to fix this block."

"Well, you know that Scott played his role."

I shift the phone to my other ear and set my computer aside, stand up from my oversized chair, and go to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. "I can blame my ex-husband all I want, but you know as well as I do that this is on me."

"If you won’t blame him, I will. Your crappy books started when he began pulling away."

I fill up my tea kettle with water and set it on the stove, turning the burner on high. "So now they’re crappy books, huh? Please, don’t hold back on my account."

She clucks her tongue. "I held my tongue for years, time for the honesty, hon."

"Gretchen, what am I going to do?" I pick out a mint-flavored tea and set it next to my favorite mug that reads "I’m hot. Blow me." Sitting down on one of the barstools next to my kitchen island, I rest my head in my hand, elbow on the countertop.

"You’re going to get control of your life."

I scoff. "Right. And how do you suggest I do that?"