Valentines Short (2022)

~ The Year Prior To The Beginning Of Our Story ~

“I have to think of something! They want my next book to release on Hearts Day!” I chewed on the cap of my pen as I stared down at the blank sheet of paper before me, as if it had invisible ink that would appear if I watched it long enough.

I could feel my agent and editor’s thoughts centering on me even now, prodding me to write from miles away. When I saw them next week, they would prod me in person, sure that I would have a great idea for my next bestseller—that it would be easy, just as it had been every book before now.

Only this wasn’t every book before now.

This wasn’t anything at the moment, because I had no ideas. I had run dry. I had ventured to the bookstore yesterday and stared at the lovely arrangement of new releases for far too long, realizing they all had something my stories didn’t: a sultry love interest with paranormal abilities—not a Uni, because you had to get permission to write about them, but a character with abilities nonetheless.

What was it about mythical, magical, otherworldly beings that everyone seemed to find so attractive? Sure, I had read a few of those stories (it was good to read around your genre and see what everyone else was doing), but I had never thought I would have to write one.

But now it seemed I did.

Because everyone else was.

And if there was anything that had been bred into me as a child, it was, “do everything better than everyone else”.

No, I didn’t think I would accomplish that this time, either. But I had to try, or I was out. If this is what people were reading, I would be left behind if I didn’t jump on the train.

“Right. Paranormal...paranormal...” I stopped chewing my pen cap as I wracked my brain for a creature I could write about; it wasn’t like we didn’t have a million of them. “Oh! I have it! I’ll call it Vampire on the Midnight Beach. I mean, vampires and beaches. What isn’t there to love? The beach at night is a pretty romantic place, and blood-drinking love interests are all the rage. It will work just fine. Instant bestseller.” I looked up to find my grandmother watching me over the rim of her teacup, her blue eyes knowing and wise.

“Ivy, love, shouldn’t you be writing something you’re genuinely interested in?” She said exactly what I knew she would say, and I cringed, because I also knew it was worthy advice.

“Of course I should be writing something I’m genuinely interested in, but no one will read that. What I’m interested in isn’t popular, gram.” I sighed, wondering if she would ever truly understand, not being from the Second Sector. “If I want to stay on top, I have to go with the trends—and in a few more years, I’ll be popular enough to make them. I just have to hold out until then. Do my time, and all that.” It sounded like a pathetic excuse even to my ears, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Whatever I wrote, it had to be dripping with paranormal vibes and flair and passion—especially if it was to be released on Heart Day. A good dose of drama was important, too. Maybe I should even have my vampire love interest give my main character a paper heart, as was customary. Surely there were bound to be plenty of problems in their relationship that he would need to apologize for.

Not that paper hearts always marked a genuine apology and promise to do better. The stack that were in my dresser drawer, probably forgotten the moment they were given, was proof of that.

“You know, if it’s to be released on Hearts Day, you’d do better to make your man profess his love, rather than apologize for it.” My grandmother went on as if she had read my mind, as if that was what Hearts Day was for.

But it used to be for that—or so she says, I reminded myself, thinking of the other stack of paper hearts I kept, ones that weren’t for apologies.

Grandmother couldn’t tell me the old name for Hearts Day—only that there was one—but she was adamant that, before the Greatest War, you didn’t give hearts to apologize for ignoring your loved ones, but to remind them of how much you cared. I personally thought both were a nice gesture (so long as the gesture was genuine), but it was true I treasured my grandmother’s paper hearts far more than the ones my parents gave me every year—mother’s overly stylish and father’s plain and white—before they proceeded to treat me as they always did.

“I’ll think about it, gram. A love declaration would be nice. But since he’s a vampire, I guess it will have to be after he bites her or something...” I shrugged, writing notes for my latest would-be bestseller.

A voice in the back of my mind echoed that my grandmother was right, that I should be writing something I genuinely wanted to write, but I was too afraid.

Who would I be if my books weren’t bestsellers, if I wasn’t popular and in-the-know? I couldn’t imagine ever losing my status and having to move from the Second Sector. The mere thought was terrifying, and I would do anything to keep it from happening.

Even write a terrible book.

“Well, whatever it is you decide to write, I’ll buy a copy and support you.” My grandmother set down her tea, and I offered her a smile.

Even when we disagreed, she was always there for me.

And I thought she always would be.

* * * *

My book Vampire on the Midnight Beach was released on Hearts Day, just as planned. And my swoon-worthy vampire did make a love confession, completely opposite the Hearts Day norm.

But the book was a flop, and for the first time, I did not release a bestseller.

My parents and boyfriend gave me paper hearts that year, but my grandmother didn’t...because she died over a month before, a few days after Christmas.

Despite the hearts I received, my parents’ attitudes didn’t change, not for the better. They pushed me to write more, to make up for my failure in sales. My boyfriend disappeared for days before I saw him again, and was careful to only visit me at my home, where we wouldn’t be caught together.

I wrote furiously, and another book was released, with one more on the way—both of the popular variety, both similar to but better than Vampire on the Midnight Beach.

By the time the next Hearts Day rolled by, I was drowning—in bad reviews, in snide comments, in low sales. The thing I had feared—expulsion from the Second Sector—was quickly becoming a possibility if the next book didn’t do well, and I was scared.

So, with shaking hands, I reached for the drawer where I kept my paper hearts. Neither my parents or my boyfriend had given me any this year, but I couldn’t say I was surprised.

Inside the drawer were the blank hearts and gaudy hearts I’d saved for years and years, but I pushed them aside to find the carefully decorated hearts my grandmother had always given me.

The first one I touched was from the year previous, the last I would ever receive from her. Decorated in fine lace, it read:

I believe in you, Ivy.

I stared at it so long, my vision went blurry—but no, that was just the tears rolling down.

I didn’t know what to write next. I didn’t know how to fix my lack of bestsellers, to fix what my life had become. If this next book didn’t do well, life as I knew it would end. If that happened, I didn’t know if there would be any way forward. And even if there was, what came next? Right now, I couldn’t think of a single story.

But, looking at that paper heart, somehow I knew—

I might doubt again and again, and I might think about giving up, but I think I’ll be okay.

Eventually, I’ll be okay.