Teaser Tuesday: Let's Get This Overwith

Coming soon! Find out more about this novella and my teaser about Thandie below:

Today, you’ll meet my hero, Kwame Adel. Kwame is a writer who has been struggling with his latest sci-fi novel. Maybe he needs a romantic subplot?

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Kwame stood at his kitchen window watching the sun rise over skeletal winter trees against a cloudy backdrop. His laptop sat untouched on the kitchen table, mocking him with its blank screen. Three months past deadline, and he still couldn’t get Dr. Amara Chen’s story right. His editor’s increasingly urgent emails remained unanswered in his inbox.

The house felt especially empty this morning. Even after inheriting it years ago, he still thought of it as his grandparents’ house. His grandfather’s engineering books still lined the study walls, and his grandmother’s quilts still draped every couch. They’d been the ones to nurture his love of science fiction, sneaking him copies of Asimov and Butler when his mother thought he should be focusing on more practical reading.

His phone rang—speaking of his mother. She was the only person that called the landline.

“Morning, Ma.”

“Good morning, baby,” Diane Adel’s voice was warm but had an edge to it. He knew why she was calling. “How are you? How’s the writing coming?”

“I’m fine,” he replied. “The writing is... coming along.”

“That’s not what Corrine says.”

Of course his editor had called his mother. They were Delta sorors, after all. “Corrine worries too much.”

“Three months past deadline isn’t just worry, son.” His mother’s tone softened. “This isn’t like you. Even when you were struggling with your last book, you at least kept in touch with your editor.”

He sank into his grandfather’s old leather recliner, the one that still smelled faintly of pipe tobacco. “I don’t know, Ma. The story’s there, I can feel it. But every time I try to write it....” He trailed off, staring at the blank document on his laptop screen.

“Maybe you need to come home for a while. I was thinking I’d drive down for a visit and bring you back with—”

“I can’t leave Evergreen Falls right now.”

Diane clicked her tongue, a sound that was intended to be a reprimand. “That tired festival they rope you into planning every year will be just fine without you for once. I heard from Mother Greene that they hired one of those professional event planners.”

Kwame closed his eyes. News traveled fast in small towns, and even faster between church mothers and actual mothers. “All the more reason I need to be here. Ms. Wilson is... competent, but.”

“More than competent. Mother Greene said she was a big deal at Platinum Circle. Even I’ve heard of them. I’m amazed Evergreen Falls could even get on her schedule.”

“She has her sights set on modernizing things. Making it a big show. I guess that’s what she does.”

“And that bothers you?”

“It should bother everyone.” He stood again, pacing the length of the living room. “This festival matters to the people of this town. It’s not some flashy event to be packaged for television. I don’t want us to be another entry on her portfolio full of high-class events.”

Kwame sighed, then pushed out one last word. “However...”

“However...” She pressed.

He’d wandered to his grandfather’s study, where he paused at the antique desk. He picked up an old fountain pen that had long dried out, but it was his grandfather’s favorite.

“Some of her ideas kind of make sense, especially if we want to make a good impression. Somehow, we got BreakfastTV’s attention and we want it to be worth the trip out here. I hope she’ll be willing to compromise.”

“Hmmm. Sounds like you’ve been spending some time with her.”

“Ma... please don’t—”

“I’m just saying, maybe you need a romantic subplot.”

“I don’t,” he protested automatically. “And I don’t need your notes.”

His mother’s amused snort was gentle. “Kwame, you haven’t written in months. Your editor is worried enough to track down your mother. Something’s going on to keep you from putting this book out.”

Kwame sank back into the desk chair and spun it around. “What if I just don’t have it anymore?”

“Kwame Isaiah Adel.” Her voice took on the stern tone that still made him sit up straight. “I did not raise you to allow those words to fall from your lips. You’ve been telling stories since you could talk. Remember when you used to write little plays for the church youth group?”

He smiled despite himself. “Pastor Solomon never quite recovered from the Three Wise Aliens visiting Jesus in the manger.”

“But the audience loved it because you know how to make people see things differently.”

“Maybe.” He glanced at his watch. Nearly eight. “I’ve got to go, Ma. I have a meeting this morning.”

“With the event planner?”

“Yes, with Ms. Wilson. About the festival,” he added quickly.

“Mmhmm. Well, tell her I said hello. And Kwame?”

“Yes, Ma?”

“You are a storyteller. Nobody can take that from you. Just let yourself tell the story, son.”

Kwame nodded, touched by his mother’s unwavering belief in him. “Thanks, Ma. I’ll talk to you later.”

After hanging up, Kwame opened his laptop again. The cursor blinked angrily on the page. He read over his last completed chapter, where Dr. Chen had just discovered the first evidence of parallel universe communication. The science was solid—he’d spent months researching quantum mechanics and theoretical physics. But something was missing.

He clicked over to his email, forcing himself to read Corrine’s latest message:

‘Kwame, the publisher is asking questions and my cover for you is thin. They’re getting skittish because you’re way overdue. Whatever’s holding you back, we can work through it. But you have to talk to me.’

The first several books had flowed easily. Adventure stories about exploring new worlds, discovering ancient alien civilizations, bending the rules of time. But this one was different. More personal somehow. Dr. Chen wasn’t just exploring parallel universes, she was confronting all the paths not taken, the choices that shaped her life.

His eyes fell on the Belk’s catalog that had come in yesterday’s mail. He’d noticed Thandie’s grimace when discussing The Wentworth’s amenities during fellowship dinner. The way she’d tried to hide her dismay at the hotel’s dated charm had been endearing and made her seem more human. Seeing her flaws and weakness for good coffee brought out the personality she hid underneath shiny, slick technology and fancy designer wear.

He left the study and headed to the front door, grabbing his coat and keys on the way out. Twenty minutes later, he was in his car in the Belk parking lot prepared to walk in the door as soon as they opened. It wasn’t about Thandie specifically, he told himself. It was about professional courtesy. Creating good working relationships. Finding common ground.

Sure, Kwame.

It definitely wasn’t about the way she’d seemed at peace during his solo at church, or how her careful corporate facade had cracked just enough to let the round-the-way girl come through when she’d tasted Sister Meredith’s mac and cheese.

As he selected the machine he’d had in mind—the same model he’d noticed in several Chicago hotel rooms during his last book tour, he thought about what his mother had said about being a storyteller. He just needed to focus on telling the story and let everything else fall in line.

Kwame ducked into his car and drove back to town, pulling into a spot down the block from The Daily Grind. He steadied himself for an hour of terse back and forth about the festival. He could think of better ways to spend his time.

Eh. Let’s get this over with.