Plain Jayne by Brea Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

the end of that story, if not for the fact that I had
one of the most productive writing days… ever!
    The next day, when I was stuck on a plodding
plot point, I spotted the blanket from the corner of my eye while I was staring
into space. It was exactly where I’d left it, in a heap in the middle of the
floor, where I’d dropped it on my way to bed the night before. On a whim, I snatched
it from the floor, arranged it evenly over my legs, and then tucked it under my
thighs and feet. Immediately, a feeling of security and warmth—both literal and
figurative—came over me. I relaxed, the ideas flowed, and I had another
20,000-word day that stretched way into the late night. Since then, the blanket
has been my constant partner.
    And, yet, I brought neither of them with me on
this trip.
    I must be getting cocky.
    Did I think an editor wasn’t going to
require me to do any re-writes? Am I starting to believe too much of the praise
that’s been heaped on me by Tullah and everyone at Thornfield Publishing
besides Lucas Edwards?
    No, I think the real issue is that I didn’t
realize how dependent I had become on my candle and my—gulp—blankie. It’s
embarrassing.
    And it supports my theory that I’m a hack. I’m
an imposter, and it’s all going to come crashing down around me. They’re all
going to find out that I can’t write. This book is a fluke, and the only reason
I was able write it is that I’ve lived with the pain for so long that it was
clawing to get out. It wrote itself. I was merely the medium. The three-book
deal I signed with Thornfield is going to be my undoing. I’m not going to be
able to fulfill it. And then everyone will know.
    That thought triggers my second panic attack
of the day, which attracts quite a bit of attention my way. I haven’t been able
to write anything at the Boston Public Library, anyway, but the anxiety and
curious stares are the deciding factors in my leave-taking. It’s safe to say I
won’t be back to this branch, either. Ever. I don’t think that’s going to break
the heart of the librarian who looked like she didn’t know whether to call 911
or Homeland Security as I was wheezing my way toward the exit.
    On the sidewalk, I sweat, trying to avoid the
stream of pedestrians giving me no more notice than water would give to a rock.
Slowly, I edge my way to an unoccupied piece of cement against the side of the
building, where I pause to catch my breath and figure out where to go next. Just
because the library was an epic fail doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up so
easily. I have an editor to trick into thinking I’m complying with his
editorial requests. If I can pull that off, then maybe I can feel like I truly
deserve to be a successful writer.
    I have to find a place to write, though.

Chapter Six
    I am a nut job. And a hack (but we’ve already
established that). By the time Gus gets home from work, I’m in tears.
    “Geez-oh-man! What happened to you?” he asks
as he parks his bike between the futon and the wall, removes the metal bike clips
from his pants, and lifts his messenger bag from his shoulder and over his
head. “This doesn’t look like a good situation.”
    Normally, I’d do nearly anything to avoid
having someone see me cry, but after the day I’ve had, I don’t have the
self-control to prevent making a spectacle of myself.
    “I can’t do it!” I wail.
    “Can’t do what, Sugar-Booger?” Gus asks,
daintily blotting perspiration from his forehead with a linen handkerchief he
produces from the back pocket of his khaki pants.
    That’s when I wetly tell him about the loud
neighbors and the library and my inability to write without all my familiar
comforts and surroundings.
    “So I went to a coffee shop, because I
thought… you know… that there’d at least be some yummy smells from the coffee
and pastries and stuff.”
    When I stop, he urges me on with his crystal
blue eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.
    I miserably say, “It was horrible