Author's Note: This is long, and there are going to be multiple chapters. Those looking for a story that is sex only should probably move along. Those looking for a mixture of sex, sensuality, romance, and tons of literary references (especially to fantasy fiction) however are invited to stay.
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A tremor ran through my chest as I looked out at the sea of faces. Everybody spoke in a low murmur – the murmur of anticipation that always preceded the formal announcement of the Rives Gander Award. My agent sat to my left, his wife by his side, and they were having a conversation between themselves about the last industry event they had gone to. They mentioned names that I recognized – names of people who were legends. People whose books I had read before the thought of even publishing my book had crossed anybody's mind.
To my right was my editor, and the rest of the table was taken up by people from the publishing house. They were all seasoned veterans in this game. I was the only one new here; everybody seemed to have forgotten that.
So instead of talking with anybody there, other than to answer the occasional comment or question that was thrown my way, I sat in my chair and picked at my dinner, and looked out at the crowded mass of writers and agents, publishers and editors and their husbands and wives and lovers and friends.
I didn't know a single person there; and I was one of the guests of honor.
The room hummed for a moment, and then everything went silent. I glanced up to the podium, where a man in a steel gray suit was now standing. It was time.
"I would like to say thank you to everyone here, tonight. Especially our writers. It goes without saying that whoever receives the Rives Gander Award this year will have been a contender in one of the tightest races for the award that I, or my colleagues have ever seen..."
Closing my eyes, I wondered again how I had gotten to this point. A year and a half ago – just a year and a half – I had spent an entire summer, between semesters at college, writing and editing and perfecting my first book. Never expecting anything more than a nod here or there, or publishing on a small press somewhere, I'd sent my first queries off to a dozen agents.
And now here I was, nominated for the most prestigious award in the world for Fantasy fiction. Funny, how life can change like that. In just an instant.
And, opening my eyes, I searched through the crowd to get a look at the man who had made it possible, without even knowing what he had done.
Simon Whatley. His table was three down from mine, and I could barely see his face through the crowd of people that sat between us. My heart started beating in that way it did when I thought of him. Wildly. Irreverently.
The person who had made me fall in love with writing - whose words I had devoured before ever realizing that there was a man behind those magical, wonderful words. And now, sitting here in the same room with him, I still considered myself his biggest fan.
As if the world had thrown the biggest curveball at me that it could, he was now my toughest competition.
Of course, I was certain that the prize would go to him. I had been, ever since I had found his name alongside mine on the announcement of the short list for the prize that my agent had sent my way. I had barely had time to hope that I might actually win this thing when I had seen his name, and immediately it had become the biggest honor in my life just to have been announced alongside him.
So I was sitting there, my eyes fixed on his face and barely paying attention to anything that was being said around me, when there was a slow pattering of applause that suddenly grew to a roaring crescendo. And inexplicably my agent was standing up, and on my other side my publishers and editor were rising.
And I thought back, trying to remember the name that had been announced. And realized that it had been Ramona Blackburn.
Me.
I froze in place for several seconds. And across from me, a space cleared and I saw Simon Whatley staring back at me.
"Mona?"
"Oh, yes," I stammered, taking his hand and letting him pull me to my feet. Dazedly I hugged everybody at my table, my mind a sudden blank, and trying not to trip over the hem of my long periwinkle gown made my way to the front of the room. Taking careful steps up the stairs and onto the dais, I walked to the man and took the gold and glass statue that he thrusted into my hands.
And I turned, feeling as if I were sinking, back to that same crowd I had been nervously watching all evening long.
"I...can't believe this is happening," I said, surprised by my sudden honestly. "I can remember wondering, when I spent the summer writing my book, whether this would end up coming to anything. It was only because I fell in love with reading, and in love with writing, that I even managed to finish this thing."
I continued on, thanking anybody I could think of – my family , wherever they were, my agent and publisher, my friends back home...and as I finished with my mental checklist I stopped, taking a breath. Tears were threatening to ruin my carefully applied makeup, and I wondered how actors and actresses managed to keep their cool under this kind of pressure.
"And finally," I said, after taking this pause for breath, "I'd like to thank all the writers who have inspired me. C.S. Lewis, and Tolkien, Bradbury, Moorcock, and J. K. Rowling and...and last of all, Simon Whatley," I finished. My gaze fell down to the award in my hands, lest I should look up and see him looking my way. "It's an honor to have been even considered as competition for one my favorite writers. I still think it might have been a bit of mistake, though. I won't blame you if you demand a recount." I laughed lightly, and was relieved to hear a good amount of laughter from the people in the room. I finally felt the tears starting to escape me, so shakily I excused myself and made my way back off the stage and down to my table as the room erupted in more thunderous applause.
"Excellent, Mona," said my agent. I turned slightly, smiling weakly. He was a middle-aged man, and – like I had said – this wasn't his first time dealing with something like this.
"Thanks," I said. "I still can't believe..."
"I knew it all along," said my publisher, placing a hand on my shoulder. I smiled, feeling a little uncomfortable at his touch. I knew there was nothing behind it – nothing more than fatherly affection for his 22 year old literary superstar, if that's what you wanted to call me. But intimacy has never been my strong suit, even with those I knew and loved best.
And more than anything, that was what was bothering me at that moment.
Everybody else there was surrounded by the people who had supported them. I didn't even know where half of my family was, at that given moment, and my friends were happily living their own lives off in the town that I had left behind. Too busy with their domestic bliss, I guess you could say, to witness my moment of triumph.
Among these strangers – among all the millions of people, now, who had read my book – I was a superstar. And with the people who actually knew Mona Blackburn, I was nothing more than a side note.
The dinner was almost over, my award sitting on the table in front of me. I reached out, picking it up. "Excuse me," I mumbled to my agent.
"Gonna make some celebratory phone calls?" he said with a wink.
