Almost an Author Read online

  Almost an Author Susan Tarr

  Susan Tarr

  Copyright © 2018 by Susan Tarr.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Susan Tarr /Junction Publishing - United Kingdom - New Zealand

  [email protected]

  www.junction-publishing.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Almost an Author/ Susan Tarr. -- 1st ed.

  Cover design: Junction Publishing

  Dedicated to..

  Contents

  New Zealand Glossary:

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Susan Tarr

  New Zealand Glossary:

  Kete – Maori woven basket

  Kiwiana – something classically New Zealand

  Kunekune – small pig used for cleaning up beneath the kiwifruit vines in an orchard

  Pakeha – European

  Prologue

  Once in an occasional great moment something amazing happens.

  And it happened to me.

  Bunked down in a little caravan high on a hill in the far north of New Zealand, I dreamed of my future fame. Sharing this caravan with Barbara Banning of Banning Books was all part of it. We were overlooking the Pacific Ocean, which was pounding the rocks below into sand. I jotted this description in my notepad, and then settled down to sleep.

  Barbara was a little sprite, kind of like Jessica Rabbit, and she wore a child-sized onesie. Pink with white spots. I biffed a pillow at her and barked, “Snoring. Again. Stop it!”

  Barbara was my publishing agent. We’d agreed to meet earlier that day at an intersecting pub, south of Auckland, since we were arriving from opposite directions. She was late, but I’d come to realize that was normal for her, so I factored in another half hour and ordered a wine. When she did arrive, not only was she forty-five minutes late, she’d forgotten to bring the map and a list of the authors she had to collect en route. Good job I had my phone because she had also forgotten to bring hers.

  Once my books and I were packed into her car, off we went on our big book tour.

  Barbara seemed as excited as I was. But she soon managed to quell my high.

  “I’ve been told by one person they’d like to see some proper reviews on Amanda before they buy it.”

  “What? Before they waste their money, you mean?” I felt defensive, but wondered if that was necessary.

  “Oh no, I’m sure that’s not what they meant.”

  “Then what did they mean?” Amanda was my first-born, my first ever published novel.

  Barbara deflected my question by pointing out a paddock full of Jersey cows, and a strawberry field. We were heading north.

  Once we’d run out of cows and strawberry fields, we fell back on chitchat.

  Barbara said I should expect one of the other authors we were meeting up with to be a bit touchy. “I couldn’t go to her book launch,” she said, without guile.

  “The one down south?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “Why not?” It seemed logical to ask, especially since I’d recently had my own book launch.

  “The dog.”

  “Your sister’s dog?”

  She nodded. “It frets.”

  “Oh?” I said, though I really wanted to ask why she didn’t just return it to her sister, over her back fence.

  Barbara had organized nine town library venues north of Auckland, which is why we were headed north on this glorious sunny day. I tried to recall the names of each library and the order we were to speak in. I was almost peeing myself in anticipation.

  Chapter One

  Five months ago.

  I’m Ruby Wright, named after my great grandmother on Mum’s side. I’m grateful for my mother’s foresighted wisdom since I could have been named Gertrude, from Dad’s side. Growing up in the deep south of New Zealand, I had a normal family with normal siblings, pets, and a good education, which stopped abruptly when I turned sixteen.

  Right now, I’m standing in the national welfare queue deliberating on how I got to be here in the first place.

  I believe that while our country might be small we Kiwis have big hearts. Take the Pike River Mining Disaster; we were out in our droves supporting our fellow countrymen. Then the Christchurch Earthquake Disaster followed that catastrophe. During those dreadful times there were thousands of everyday people, rallying around, shoveling other people’s stuff, and helping their neighbor, or a person they’d never set eyes on until this disaster brought them together. A prayer of gratitude that it happened to someone else followed more frenzied giving and ardent prayers for the families involved. And then there was TAROD—Tauranga Astrolabe Reef Oil Disaster resulting in all those valiant women, and men, knitting frenetically, churning out their designer version of miniature penguin jerseys. Ah, but the Kaikoura earthquake affected the whole country in a most profound way, ripping our beautiful land apart, and shunting the South Island five meters closer to the North Island.

  Soon enough these calamities held their own titles in capitals. PRMD. CED. TAROD. KE. Well, that’s my way of sorting them into their respective disaster boxes.

  As a nation, as a culture, going along with our generous spirit, we’re ready to heap lavish praise or pour icy water in equal measure. We’ll build one so high they believe their new place in the universe is impenetrable. Then we’ll create the chinks for them and watch as they fall to the ground. But don’t ever doubt we’ll be right there to dust off their shattered confidence and encourage them to try again.

  Take me—I’m feeling pretty shattered, and no amount of shoulder patting or prolonged hugs can lift my spirits. You see I’ve written for years, always believing my next completed work will be a blockbuster, or at least published. I even stopped doing housework believing such mundane chores stole from me my natural creative juices. I invested in a laptop, but only once my scribbled notes of disordered brilliance became unmanageable; Mum’s suitcase would no longer close because of the paper war going on inside it. So now I pour my beating heart into the electr
ic heart of my Toshiba.

  Again, I’m Ruby.

  This is my story.

  It’s about my near brush with fame.

  Along with me, on this journey of almost stardom, is my enthusiastic literary agent, Barbara Banning of Banning Books. Her name alone fills me with an absurd rush of having arrived. Somewhere. Anywhere. Not only can I imagine Amanda published by Banning Books, my name on the front cover, bigger than the title, I can already see it. But back to the beginning…

  It’s February, calm and sunny, nudging 29 degrees Celsius. I’m hanging washing beneath a forever-blue sky with the occasional white fluffy cloud, which makes it look like a bowl of blue coffee with marshmallows melting into it.

  My first encounter with Barbara takes place in a small country town. The local newspaper announced that a couple of noteworthy writers will be outside a certain bookshop at a specified time, signing copies of their latest novels. Their agent, Barbara Banning of Banning Books, will be looking for new writers, offering free, professional and speedy reading of all manuscripts.

  A glance at my diary—empty—gives me two days before the signings are to take place.

  I print off copies of my manuscripts and plastic-wrap them, a trick I learned from an agent who always declines my work but returns it shrink-wrapped. Once I arrive in the town, I drive past the advertised venue, checking to see if I’ve got her day, date and time correct. Sure enough, there’s a woman standing outside the bookshop guarding stacks of books on a navy sheet covered table.

  I park further down the street, load my arms up with my manuscripts, and then cross over to where the book signing is being held. A few more people gather. I approach with caution. I must look like an author, because I’m pounced on so fast I barely have time to panic. She says she’s Barbara Banning of Banning Books.

  We get right to the business of talking about my work—I’ve no interest in anyone else’ stuff. I rush on about the storylines, somehow blending them all into one, carried along by Barbara’s enthusiastic interest in me.

  I’m beyond ecstatic at handing my manuscripts over; I walk three blocks in the wrong direction. Coffee. I need coffee. But the further I walk I find the cafes closing ahead of me, like carefully arranged dominos. Floating along on the crest of good fortune, I locate my car.

  Once home, my first act of sensibleness is to flick an email off to Ms. Banning to remind her I’m a serious career writer. And persistent. And in my email I list the titles of my manuscripts in the event that they become hot property and fall into the hands of some unscrupulous book pirate.

  Within days, she says she’s read them. Of Amanda she shares her most valid opinion that it might even find a place on National Radio as a radio play.

  ‘…Perhaps it’s too slow moving for a book. But there’s a huge amount of dialogue, so maybe it would be best as a book—it’s strong enough to stand alone. It’s cleverly written with a great amount of information that all women can relate to. The end was brilliant and left the reader feeling energetic from the power of your main character and a belief that life was good. You are an extremely clever, original, and intelligent writer, Ruby...’

  My eyes boggle before misting over, so I wipe them with the back of my hand and re-read this part several times.

  ‘…Have you approached any publishers with your work? If so, could you let me know which ones and what their comments were? I would like to discuss the future of your work with you, as your stories need to get out there. Thank you very much for the pleasure your writing has given me. Barbara.’

  I read the email a dozen more times. I can’t stop the buzzing feeling of potential big-ness, although I’m doing my best to stay calm. After taking a few deep breaths, I email back to ask what happens next, and list the publishers who have so far rejected my brilliance, and their comments.

  ‘Dear Ruby, it’s very early days, but we will do the best we can with your writing as it’s extremely good. I loved Amanda. She was a pain in the backside but I cared about what was happening to her. The end was quite beautiful—justice seen to be done. She’s a powerful character and you could start thinking about a sequel to this book.

  I haven’t done the exercise in costings. Will do it in the morning so I have information on hand when I talk to you.

  Oh, and I have a free calling number. Remind me to give it to you.’

  Costings? Of course there would be costs. Who am I kidding? Like someone has to pay for coffee and postage stamps.

  Our second meeting is comical; neither remembers what the other looks like. I expected a gray-haired sparrow-of-a-woman with a smart silver 4WD. And at this hour on a Saturday morning, in the same small town, there wouldn’t be too many of that description hanging around the corner bookshop. But Barbara has dyed her hair black and now drives a shiny red hatchback, so the original description was never going to fit.

  She doesn’t remember anything about me.

  We both wait for the other to show—it’s getting late. But once the genuine shoppers have been eliminated, we emerge from our positions and run toward each other.

  It’s during the initial stages that Barbara utters the words brilliant writer not once but three times. That has me imagine the font and size of the words when they hit the international reviews. A Brilliant New Writer… Brilliant New Writer Discovered… Brilliant New Voice of Brilliant New Writer…

  We walk the empty streets looking for a coffee bar, Barbara murmuring that this time next year she intends to have a best seller in the shops. I gurgle something, although I have pains recalling what. She lifts her small face, framed in her intense black coif, which has me rethink the sparrow image. Perhaps jackdaw, magpie or raven would be more appropriate? She nods her head. Yes, it could well be one of yours, she confirms, albeit subliminally.

  My brain goes into ecstatic overdrive.

  We sit outside a cafe ignoring the dark cloud that now covers half of the sky making everything appear gloomy. I have my ears tuned in the hope I will hear more of her grandiose compliments. Best Seller List. The words travel from my ears into my brain and down over my shoulders like warm oil, like summer rain, or like a hot shower after a long and tiring day of writing my next blockbuster.

  I grab a notebook from my handbag and start asking sensible questions. “So how many books have you published, Barbara?”

  “Lots.”

  Okay, that’s good. “Like, how many?”

  Barbara is un-phased. “I’ve published many and I hope to add yours to my listing.”

  So somewhere between hundreds and infinity. I tick that question off, satisfied I’ve received a good answer.

  “Will you be going to the Munich Book Fest?”

  “I’m already booked for the one in Phoenix,” Barbara says smoothly. “That’s the one before the Munich Book Fest. My daughter lives in Arizona, did I tell you that?”

  Excellent. She has family connections right in the heart of the Phoenix Book Festival.

  “Barbara, what did you do before you decided on a publishing career?”

  “I owned real estate in Australia.”

  That will be good for the marketing side of things and perhaps explains why my questions are being fielded in such a pleasant way. At which point, my brain shoots off to my earlier days in Herbalife, Amway, and Nutrimetics, the art of answering a question with lots of nice words but not actually answering the question. Hmmm, but she’s good. And a good literary agent or publisher is what I need to push my books toward the larger publishing houses since those mega giants are almost killing my future, and my present.

  “So how many books are you agenting at the moment?” A direct question. I have no idea of the difference between a literary agent and a publisher, but she’ll see me as professional.

  “Let’s see,” she murmurs, cocking her head to one side, tapping her chin with her tiny forefinger. “There’s Jason’s—his are a wonderful read, classic history. And there’s Sarah and her last book—it hit the international best seller
list for two years in the UK. Only pipped by the Prime Minister’s memoirs.”

  Wow! Imagine being in the company of a world-class literary agent. Barbara agented universally renown books—even the UK Prime Minister’s memoirs—to the number one bestseller list. This woman travels the world to all of the book festivals, and is so busy agenting stuff for her clients it’s understandable she didn’t recognized me earlier. Boy, do I feel blessed.

  With the words Brilliant and Best Seller bouncing around in my head, I drive home.

  Our next meeting is planned for somewhere easier to find than the corner bookshop in a small country town. We plan to meet in a craft shop in the center of a mall, just south of Auckland city.

  “Of course, I’ll find it,” I say.

  My brand new flatmate, Hunter, arrives with little in the way of personal gear.

  Since I was struggling with my rent payments, and he was the only applicant, I’m skipping dance steps on my front porch. I follow him as he empties his few belongings onto the mattress in the spare room, arranges his clothes on the wire hangers and spreads them out so they cover the short rail that runs from one side of his small wardrobe to the other. He puts his laptop on the dressing table and sorts his undies and socks into the drawers. For the duration of this emptying and sorting, I perch on the end of his bed and watch. When the box is empty, he opens his duffle bag and empties out a roll of bedding, which looks as though it has been rolled up from a previous bed. He gestures that I should get off the bed so he can make it up. I linger in the doorway, watching. I’m right; he checks for the top end and then matches the corners to the top of the mattress, allowing enough sheet for tuck-ins. From there it’s a simple matter of rolling the mass down until there’s no more to roll, at which point his bed is made. He pats it smooth a couple of times, then picks up the box he discarded earlier. Snipping the packing tape that seals the bottom, he flattens it, and stows it inside his duffle bag.