Backup Plan - Emily Goodwin Page 0,3

around me. I’m a big fat fucking fake and it’s only a matter of time before they expose me, and what better way than to do it on live TV, broadcasted nationally to several million viewers.

Fuck.

What was the question? Sweat drips between my breasts, thankfully out of sight from the live audience’s prying eyes. I’m regretting turning down that pre-show glass of wine, going instead for some gross concoction of kale, green tea, and some nasty shit that was probably scraped out of a dirty fish tank with a fancy name slapped on it.

I swallow hard and force a smile, flicking my eyes from the show host to the audience.

“Fight like a girl,” I say, not recognizing my own voice leaving my lips. It’s not an answer to the question I was asked, I know, yet the audience erupts in cheers nonetheless when they hear the catchy tagline to my series. I take their enthusiasm in stride, stealing a few seconds to close my eyes and try and find my center—which I’ve never been able to fucking do, even after overpaying for private yoga session for the last five years.

“You’ve started a feminist movement,” Helen, the show host goes on, fanning the flames of my rabid fans. “Was that always your intention?”

My smile turns genuine, and I push myself back into the game. I’ve got this.

“Honestly,” I say slowly, leaning forward. It’s one little word, but three killer syllables. Because honesty and Hollywood aren’t things you say simultaneously. “I had these voices in my head that demanded I tell their stories. And it just transpired from there.”

The crowd breaks out into cheers again, and my heart swells in my chest, sucking it all in. The fame. The love from perfect strangers. Knowing my words have touched so many people. It’s surreal, even after all this time. I may have twenty novels under my belt, had my name appear on the New York Times bestseller list multiple times, have an insanely supportive fanbase, and a super popular paranormal romance series that got made into a TV series—and season one won two fucking Emmy awards—but I still feel like the same outcast I did the day I moved to LA.

A loner.

The weirdo.

Forever alone.

Too much for anyone to handle.

Surround me a thousand adoring fans, and all it does is remind me how alone I actually am. I’m a walking and talking cliché, I know. And I hate myself for it.

I made it.

Did the impossible.

And for that, yeah, I feel like the bad-fucking-ass my fanbase thinks I am. The nerd, the underdog, the girl everyone made fun of made it not only in the scary world of publishing but now is flourishing in Hollywood. I’ve dated actors. Gone out with producers. Partied with reality TV stars. Signed books all over the world and had my novels translated into more languages than I knew existed. I went from writing fan fiction to my own original stories, and those novels hit it big time with the paranormal and sci-fi loving crowd. My characters became a voice in the much overdue feminist movement, giving hope to those who’d otherwise been hopeless, as well as just providing an entertaining-as-fuck series for pretty much everyone to enjoy.

“Tell me more about Kellie,” Helen says, and the audience eagerly agrees. “How did you come up with such an interesting character?”

My lips pull into a smile, genuine this time, because I can talk about my characters all day long. They’re all me in some sense, just a little less neurotic, even the ones who fight demons on the regular. I’ve put myself into each and every one of my characters in some way or the other, and I stand behind creating realistic and relatable characters one hundred percent, which I know caused waves at last year’s Comic Con.

I have a degree in sociology. I grew up wanting to be a social worker and didn’t study English for years like some of my peers, who look down on me for said lack of degree. But I’ll look out at the audience and tell them with confidence that you either have what it takes to write or you don’t, and wasting years studying “the craft” won’t make up for your lack of talent.

I’ve pissed off my fair share of wealthy parents by saying just that, but I stand by it. Anyone can get a fancy degree if you can wrangle up the money. Creativity can’t be taught. You can learn how to unlock what