The Writing Retreat(25)

Even though… she definitely had a point.

Roza was gazing at her with a frown. We held our collective breath.

But then Roza smiled. “Here’s the reason I’m not giving all of you a personal grant, darling. It’s because I’m not in the business of dispensing handouts.”

Wren watched her, giving a slow nod.

“And there’s another reason too,” Roza went on. “I’ve found that the best work comes when the stakes are raised. When there’s an element of stress. That’s when the survival instinct kicks in. And that makes for the most raw and vivid work.”

“Okay.” Wren said it woodenly.

“After all”—Roza fiddled with her lighter—“I’m not running a spa, darling. You didn’t think a retreat with me was going to be a nice, relaxing time, did you?”

Wren blinked. “Well, no, but—”

“You knew this was a writing retreat,” Roza pointed out. “That writing would be involved. Just think of this as an added bonus. A one-in-five chance to win a million dollars.” She raised her hands. “And even if you don’t win, you’ll have a novel! One that a group of brilliant writers will have helped you create. It will be your best work yet. And, of course, you’ll have me as your champion.” Roza tapped the lighter twice. “I don’t plan on leaving anyone out in the cold. Unless you leave first. I can’t support someone who gives up so easily. Understood?”

Wren bobbed her head, chastened. “I do.”

“What if we fall behind?” Taylor asked suddenly.

Roza widened her eyes. “Don’t fall behind. If you fail to make your daily word count”—she shrugged—“then you’ll be asked to leave the next day.”

The table was silent. We stared at Roza, waiting for her to burst out laughing. You’re all so serious!

“Anything else?” she asked instead.

“Any restrictions regarding the content?” Keira’s tone verged on casual.

“Up to you.” Roza pushed back her chair. “Of course, you know what I like, based on what got you here. But if you want to try sci-fi or whatever, that’s up to you. I lied about the day off; please come up with a one-paragraph proposal by our first meeting tomorrow. No need to share beyond the midpoint unless you’d like to. Print out copies for everyone; we’ll discuss them at two.”

“Oh god.” Poppy looked stricken. “That’s fast.”

“That’s the game, darling.” Roza stood, picking up her glass.

“What if you don’t like it?” I asked. “The story idea.”

Roza studied me. “Then you’ll have to come up with something else.”

Being the focus of her gaze was like nothing else I’d ever experienced: like being pinned down as she cracked open my skull, staring impassively, considering the slimy things inside.

Then she grinned and it was friendly, almost jaunty. The switch jarred me.

“So, my dear.” Her voice was light. “Make it something I like.”





Chapter 10




After dinner, we returned to our rooms. The earlier camaraderie at dinner had dissipated and we were silent as we climbed the marble staircase.

Halfway up the stairs, Taylor broke the silence. “Well, fuck.”

“Guess the party’s over.” Keira pursed her lips. “That was fast.”

“Do you guys have ideas yet?” Poppy’s large eyes were veined with red. “Because I am freaking the eff out.”

Keira squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. I was thinking of trying some freewriting. Seeing what comes up.”

“That’s a good idea,” Taylor said.

“What time is it?” I asked.

Only Wren wore a watch. “Ten thirty,” she said without looking at me.

I felt a curious remove from the situation. It was like all the stress of the past two hours had completely shut me down. Seeing Wren and finding out she was engaged. Roza messing with me in front of everyone. And now having to come up with an entire novel idea when I hadn’t been able to write anything over the past year.

I hadn’t expected it to be easy. But maybe not quite so punishing?

Still, the stakes were admittedly high. As Roza had said, I now had a one-in-five chance of a million-dollar publishing deal. The idea of that much money didn’t even compute.

But it would certainly mean I could quit my job. And even if I didn’t win, I’d still have a new novel, one that Roza had helped me write. Any way this shook out, I’d end up in a place infinitely better than where I’d started from.

If I could keep up, of course.

It was a relief to shut my door. I took a hot shower and blasted myself with cold at the end, trying to shake the drowsiness from the heavy dinner, wine, and weed. The night was not over yet. Wrapped in a heavy robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door, I settled at the desk and opened my laptop. It was time to get to work.



* * *



An hour later I moaned and pressed my forehead onto the desk. I’d come up with a list of ideas, and they were all awful. Worse than awful: boring.

I knew what it felt like to have a good idea. The concept would trigger something, a little ember deep down in the belly. You’d have to be careful not to hold it too tightly. But you could feel it—the expansive glow of all the possibilities.