Page 19 of Death of the Author

She kissed her teeth, genuinely irritated. Now she didn’t believe him. “Oh, stop exaggerating.”

“Have you ever known me to exaggerate?”

She considered this for a moment, frowning.

“I’m not just gassing you up, Zelu. It’sgood.”

After she hung up the phone, she lay there for the next hour staring at the ceiling. Maybe it was just him. A fluke. She and Msizi had always had a weird connection. So of course he’d vibe with the strange book she’dwritten. But then again, he’d hated her other novel. Zelu shut her eyes and immediately...

I stood there enjoying the wind. Around me were the sad ruins of humanity, now overrun, overgrown, built over, ready for those who came next. Periwinkle grass sprouted wild and lush over stainless steel and rusting metals. Vines and wires wound together along the sides of slumping skyscrapers. This place was meant for automation. I passed a public charging node for travelers who didn’t run on solar. I was solar, but I pressed a foot on one of the charging pads anyway and received a hit of energy. For a moment, everything around me sparkled like a rogue vision. I felt mighty. I knew where I was going. This was not about safety; it was my destiny. There was no turning back now that I had begun...

Zelu opened her eyes and smiled. Fifteen minutes had flown by while she reread parts of her novel in her mind. The rusted robots in the story were a metaphor for wisdom, patina, acceptance, embracing that which was you, scars, pain, malfunctions, needed replacements, mistakes. What you were given. The finite. Rusted robots did not die in the way that humans did, but they celebrated mortality. Oh, she loved this story and how true it felt.

In the morning, before she thought too hard about it, she emailed the novel to her agent, Jack Maher. If Jack was lukewarm about this one, she was done, finished, fuck this shit, she’d take up some hobby and, with any luck, get that damn office job with benefits. It wouldn’t matter. If she didn’t write stories, then she didn’t know what else there was to her life. After she hit Send, she sat back, her face feeling hot and her stomach queasy.

“No turning back now.”

As it went, her novel transformed into energy, zipping away through the internet to her agent, she felt... different. She’d just done something.She’d just shared something. Something strange and unexpected. She shivered and then gasped, as if she were standing on that beach in Tobago, dipping a toe into the water only for a giant wave, clear and blue, to rise up before her and sweep her into the deep.

She turned off all text, call, and email notifications on her computer, iPad, and phone. Then she ordered an autonomous vehicle to pick her up and take her to Navy Pier. For hours, she stared out at the waters of Lake Michigan, trying not to think about anything at all. When she got home, her parents were in the kitchen eating egusi soup and pounded yam.

“Where have you been?” her mother asked. “We were worried.”

“Out,” she said. She paused and then blurted, “I... finished my novel.” She grinned.

“Oh, you’re still working on that thing?” her mother said.

“What of your job applications?” her father asked, biting into a piece of beef.

It pained her heart, but she kept the smile from slipping. “Doing the best I can,” she said, turning to head to her room. “Doing the best I can.”

“If you need a letter of recommendation, ask Amarachi to help you,” her father called after her.

Once she’d turned the corner, she heard her mother softly ask, “You think she’s depressed, Secret?”

Her father replied, “Maybe. Glad she’s living here, where we can keep an eye on her. That therapist she sees is no good.”

Zelu wanted to slam her bedroom door, but instead, she gently shut it. She’d finished her novel.Hang on to that feeling, she thought. She took a long, long shower, washing her raggedy braids. She oiled them, put on an old Pink Floyd T-shirt, and pulled herself into her bed. Only then did she check her phone.

There was still nothing from her agent, not even an email saying he’d received the manuscript. However, there were three texts from Msiziasking questions aboutRusted Robots. The guy was obsessed. She smiled, deciding she’d call him again later. Honestly, if he was the only one who liked the novel, that was more than enough.The rest of the world can hate it. I’ll be fine, she told herself.Won’t be the first time I failed to meet expectations.She went to bed.

In the morning, there were five texts, two emails, and three voicemails, all from her agent. “It’sincredible!” he’d shouted in the first voicemail. “This is going to be an instant bestseller. You’re going to win awards! Call me ASAP!”

She’d peeked into the hallway and listened for a sign that her parents were around. Her mother was in the kitchen washing dishes and speaking loudly on the phone. Zelu didn’t hear her father; he was most likely not home. She quietly closed her bedroom door again. She sat on her bed for a while before calling her agent back. He didn’t ask her how she’d written it. He didn’t askwhyshe’d written it. He didn’t ask how long it had taken. He didn’t ask how she felt about it. He didn’t care. He did talk a lot about how many readers were going to love it and how eager booksellers would be to support it. But first, he told her, he would submit it to all the best editors at the biggest publishing houses. Zelu didn’t need to do anything but wait for the offers to come in.

Within another twenty-four hours, her agent was in a bidding war to sell the book. He called her and presented her with unbelievable options about escalating royalties and subrights splits and marketing promises, which she had no clue how to handle. She was so overwhelmed, yet she told no one what was happening—not her parents, not any of her friends, not even Msizi. The negotiations went on for a whole week, and Zelu just wanted to hide under her bed. Her agent kept sending her offers of mind-boggling amounts of money. Never had he called so often or sounded so excited; for years, she’d barely heard from him, and she’d had to hector him for even the smallest updates. What a two-faced jerk. But could she reallyblame him? Theirs was a business relationship, not a friendship. He was good at what he did, and she needed him now more than ever.

She and her agent settled on a hefty seven-figure advance for a three-book series. Then the TV people caught wind of it. And then one of the biggest studios in the world got involved. Suddenly, she also had a film agent, and Zelu’sRusted Robotsseries was optioned by a major film studio inanotherbig seven-figure deal.

Then came the sales of the foreign translation rights. Then came the media requests and offers of paid speaking gigs around the country. All of this happened within a matter of months. Her publisher moved up the scheduled on-sale date so the book could be released before the end of the year. Zelu couldn’t catch her breath. Who got published this quickly, this instantly, this ridiculously?

She never could have imagined something like this—and she’d written a novel about postapocalyptic robots.

9

Ting Ting Ting

She’d been editing all day. It was nice to sink into the sea of words and story, to get away from reality for a while. She had a seasoned editor who loved the book and whose notes were all on point, guiding Zelu to find ways to make an already shiny book shinier.