Every day should feel new and exciting, but it doesn’t. If I had been asleep at all, I wake up, write, prepare for whatever event is on my calendar, write more, talk to Ryan, write even more. Eventually, someone from my team reminds me I need to get on a plane to fly to the next thing.

Four days. I’ll be home in four days. Ryan can hold me. I can eat something that isn’t in a takeout container. I can rest.

Sort of. Trina told me JMP is very interested in signing me on for more books, and I need something to show them.

I love writing. If writing were the only thing, I could probably do it forever. Maybe I’d even be able to write something that wasn’t absolute shit if I weren’t stretched so thin. Yet as I stare at my screen, trying to make sense of whatever I typed at three in the morning, that doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon. In a fit of desperation, I highlight the entire chapter and hover my finger over the Delete button.

My phone chirps from the nightstand in my hotel room, and I blink rapidly. Where am I? New York? A glance outside at the gorgeous view of the Empire State Building that I haven’t been able to appreciate confirms my location. In the Time Before was a book club pick for a huge daytime talk show—one of the ones where five women sit around a fake kitchen table and talk. I’m slated for an appearance with them today, then a late-night show in two days. Then home.

The chirping sounds again, and I realize that’s my ringtone. “Saved by the bell,” I tell the jumble of highlighted words on my screen as I make my way over to my phone to answer it.

Great, now I’m talking to myself.

“Hello?”

“Good morning,” Trina says rather loudly.

I pull the phone away from my ear to turn the volume down. “Hi.”

She cuts right to the chase. “Got any pages for me to look at today? JMP is very curious what you’ve got up your sleeve, and honestly, so am I.”

“I did,” I grumble, poking around in the cabinets in the kitchenette for some coffee. “I read through it just now, and it’s garbage.”

“Scarlett, we’ve talked about this,” she admonishes. “You are a best-selling author. Your books have won awards. You are about to appear on two major television shows because your books have become pillars of contemporary literature. Your writing is not garbage.”

“No pressure,” I snipe, finally finding a coffee pod and tossing it into the machine.

“There is some pressure,” she singsongs. “JMP wants something to look at. Send me what you’ve got. I’m sure Ryan and I can put some makeup on it or something.”