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No, no, no. I grab my phone, unlock it, navigate to favorites, and touch Mulberry's name without even fully registering the thought.
It rings. How am I going to explain knowing Sydney Rye needs help?
I’m thousands of miles away, stationed on a private island in the middle of the Pacific. And yet—
"Hello?" Mulberry's voice, gravelly with sleep, cuts through my thoughts.
"Sydney is bleeding."
"What?" Mulberry's voice clears as sheets rustle in the background.
A dog barks. I focus on the monitor with the live feed of Sydney's room. Blue is up and going wild. Sydney, her shoulder length hair splayed out on the pillow, the white of the hotel sheets only a few shades lighter than her blanched skin, remains motionless.
I didn't even need to call. The dogs would have alerted Mulberry. Foolish. Careless. Stupid.
"What’s going on, Dan?”
I don’t answer.
The door between Mulberry and Sydney's rooms flies open—I watch it on the screen and hear the hinges swoosh over the phone line. Reaching out, I slide my finger along the stylus bar to raise the volume. Mulberry stumbles into Sydney's room, unsteady on just his one leg.
She didn't lock the door. That isn’t like her. Except it was Mulberry on the other side. A subtle invitation?
"No!" Mulberry’s voice echoes between the phone and computer speakers. He lunges toward the bed.
Sydney lies on her back, a dark stain spreading around her hips. Mulberry drops the phone when he grabs her shoulders, his broad back blocking Sydney’s face from my view.
I swivel to a different monitor and bring up Mulberry's phone screen. I dial 911. Someone has to. I can always be counted on to do what needs doing. Overstepping saves lives.
"What's your emergency?" the Miami 911 operator asks.
I clench my fist on the glass surface of my desk. Answer her, you idiot. Mulberry doesn’t follow my mental command. Fine. I take full control of the phone. "My wife is pregnant and bleeding. We’re at the airport Marriott, room 523," I say, my voice even and clear. I say it like it's my baby. Like it's my life. Not something I’m watching on a screen. My eyes flick back to the live feed of her room. "I can't wake her."
Mulberry sits on the edge of the bed, face tear streaked.
Sydney isn’t moving.
She isn’t moving.
Don't let her die.
P.S. The dog does not die.
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I write because I love to read, but I have specific tastes...
If I was offered a job as a professional reader with no strings attached, I would take it. Getting paid to sit around and read while drinking tea all day—I'm there. Since that’s not possible, I became an author.
I write the books I want to read—stories that give me the immersive reading experiences I crave. When a series grabs me, and it's all I can think about, I'm SO happy. When my inner dialogue starts sounding like the protagonist of my current read, I think, Oh yeah, this is IT. This is what I love.
When I finish a book, and I NEED to immediately grab the next one in the series, that’s the intensity I crave. When I binge read an entire series, I want to feel like my own reality changed—as if the stories I read affected the real world just a little. After a great series I'm a little wiser, a little more grateful for my everyday existence, and a little more aware that my personal perspective is not everyone's.
Personally, I like to spend time in fictional worlds where justice is exacted with a vengeance, even though good and bad are not always black and white. Give me raw stories with a main character who occasionally makes me laugh, is flawed like we all are, and feels like a friend by the end of the first few chapters. They don’t have to be a friend I always LIKE, per se, but a part of me has to root for them.
For me, the sentence structure is important. Too much passive voice, and I'm out. I do not mind four-letter words at all though. Sex in books can go either way—fade to black or show me the details, but either way there has to be a reason it’s in the story. I'm also into heroic pets, plots that seem totally unhinged but all come together in the end with a BANG, and long series so I always have more to look forward to.
Those are the types of stories I love reading, so that’s how I write. If you’re into some or all of the above then I think we are going to get along fantastically.
www.emilykimelman.com
