Page 2

The Literary Laurels Society

“ C atherine Beech. Who’s that?” Furball wasn’t interested. He climbed on my shoulder to nuzzle my neck like an old woman’s shawl. Curious, I clicked to open the letter.

Relief washed through me when I realized she was with the Literary Laurels Society, and the letter had nothing to do with my controversies or deleting my social media account. “They want me to be a presenter at this summer’s convention!” I cheered enthusiastically. This was fabulous! The formerly looming monster of imposter syndrome shrunk into a scared rabbit and bolted away, leaving me basking in a sense of accomplishment as tangible as the cat on my shoulders.

Joy and pride flushed my cheeks while I read the body of the email. This year’s conference was being held in New Orleans—convenient because I could drive there in under ten hours. Plus, I’d been to New Orleans before, so I knew what I was in for—the hottest, stickiest, most humid city in North America. Oh, but the culture, history, atmosphere, and music! This was wonderful. I was planning to go anyway since Aspen Wolfe was a finalist in three categories: Erotic Romance, Contemporary Romance Novel, and Romantic Thriller.

“The conference planning committee has invited you to present on the topic, ‘How to Write Sizzling Sex Scenes.’” The letter outlined the society’s values, which mirrored my own. Next, it listed reasons I had been selected for this topic—a tremendous boost to my shaky ego—and wrapped with a preliminary schedule for the event. It would start on a Thursday evening with a jazz music mixer, including food and drinks, followed by a comedy night. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday would feature an open fair with author and artist vendor tables, panels, presentations, and masterclasses aimed at both readers and writers. Sunday night’s awards dinner and ceremony would serve as the grand finale.

“As compensation for your contribution, the conference will cover the costs for tickets and accommodations, including a vendor table and the banquet meal.” I grinned, feeling better by the minute. It was high time something went right for me, and this was more than I could have hoped for.

More awards and organizations existed supporting sapphic fiction and LGBTQ+ authors and their work than ever before, and the Literary Laurels Society was one of the foundation groups. What started as a small cluster of writers with a shared vision two decades ago had grown into the foremost advocate for sapphic authors, representing diverse voices and genres. And they want me!

I resisted the urge to reply immediately. That would look too desperate, too needy, not professional enough. Instead, I plonked out a quick note to Tammy, telling her both the bad news regarding Aspen’s farewell to social media and the incredible revelation about the conference.

Next, I texted Tracy, who responded with party-cheer emojis and a ‘way to go!’ I hadn’t been this excited since winning my first award. Amid my celebration, a thought hit me—I’d have to look, act, and talk like super-sexy, consummately professional Aspen Wolfe for four whole days! Suffering a mini panic attack, I called my sister.

“Alice, what are you doing toward the end of June?”

“And hello to you too,” came her sarcastic reply. My big sister, Alice Jones Severide, was a beautician married to a dermatologist. Together, they battled acne and bad hair days to transform average-looking customers into walking works of art—well, I guess they didn’t address weight or wardrobes, but Alice was fantastic with a makeover.

“Sorry,” I huffed. “Hello. How’s Wilson and the kids? Worked on any celebrities lately?”

“All right,” Alice laughed. “What d’ya need.”

A dozen witty comebacks flashed through my mind, but I wasn’t calling to banter. Besides, she was right. I usually only phoned when I wanted something. Did that make me a bad sister? I’d called a couple of weeks before just to chat after I saw a positive article about Dr. Wilson Severide’s work with treating and preventing melanoma. Yeah, he cured more than pimples, and skin cancer was one of the foremost concerns of modern beachgoing Floridians. So, I cut to the point.

“I’ve been invited to speak at a conference, and I’ll be gone for four days. Before I go, I need you to give me a makeover and teach me how to do the stuff with my face and hair so I can maintain my professionally-enhanced appearance.”

“Really?” Interest twinkled in her tone. “A teacher’s conference?”

I smirked impatiently. She knew I hadn’t been teaching all year to focus on writing. While I’d never gone into detail with the family about exactly what I wrote, they knew I was self-publishing fiction novels and short stories. And I’d only had to ask for money a couple of times. Mine was a modest lifestyle; it had to be as an underpaid teacher and now as a starving artist. My apartment was a full five-minute drive from the bay, and my car was the same one Mama and Daddy bought me when I left home for college seventeen years ago. Yes, it still ran. It was a Toyota, after all.

I’d enjoyed a few plusher years when Tracy and I lived together and had two incomes to support us, but it’s always a struggle for a single woman to make financial ends meet. Alice, with her doctor husband, never had to worry about running out of funds at the end of a month or resorting to unhealthy ramens because she couldn’t afford to go grocery shopping.

Teaching had been rewarding; it had also been stressful and depressing. Many of the kids endured poverty and miserable home lives, hemmed in by rigid pressures that I was powerless to address. Juggling the demands of parents, the principal, the school board, and, worst of all, the state of Florida proved to be an exhausting and frustrating task. Education had become so politicized with candidates blasting opponents’ policies and promising so much better. Every other year, they required a complete transformation in the way our classrooms operated, and I was in constant fear of somebody waging war against me if they discovered my sexual orientation. Then they passed the insane “Don’t Say Gay” law that infuriated me to no end. Not only could I not tell people I was a lesbian—I couldn’t even act as an advocate for students at school because we were supposed to operate as if no member of the LGBTQ+ community existed. It was just too much.

Maybe I wasn’t making quite as much money writing as I had teaching, but I was happier and healthier, and that counted. Alice just didn’t understand.

“No, Allie, a writer’s conference that’s going to be in New Orleans the last weekend of June.”

“New Orleans?” Her voice rose in incredulity. “You’ll sweat more there than here. Why couldn’t they have had it in February?”

“Mardis Gras,” I reminded her.

“January, then.”

“Football bowl games. Listen,” I charged, trying to guide her back on track. “I can come to Orlando to your place. Just book me a few hours on your calendar, please, and explain what you’re doing and how to do it while you’re working on me. It needs to be on Wednesday, the 26 th , because I’ll be driving all day Thursday. Don’t worry, I’ll be inside most of the time, so I shouldn’t melt.”

“I can book you on the afternoon of the 26 th from one to four,” Alice responded in her business tone. “I don’t suppose you plan to pay full price.”

I rolled my eyes and groaned. Hadn’t I done things for her over the years? The time I covered for her when she snuck out to go gallivanting with Ronnie Malone sprung to mind. And just last summer I babysat for her for not a single dime while she and Wilson took a cruise to Cancun. And she wants to charge me for—

“Geez, I’m just kidding,” she huffed in annoyance. “Can’t you take a joke? Of course, I won’t charge you, silly—even if it is my profession. Just don’t write me in as an obnoxious character in one of your books.”

“Never,” I swore in relief, feeling foolish for getting out of sorts. I blamed the emotions of the day for jerking me around. “Thanks.”

“A presenter at a writers’ conference,” Alice repeated admiringly. “You’re really making a go of this, aren’t you?” Before I could respond, she continued. “Now understand, I can’t teach you an entire cosmetology course in three hours, but I can show you how to apply basic makeup.”

“Well, I can slap on powder and blush.” My defense was followed by a moment of silence.

“This is when we need FaceTime,” Alice declared, “so you can see the expression I’m giving you. I presume you want to look like you did for the Read Out, right?”

“Yeah, and could we go shopping so you can help me pick out a few stylish outfits?”

“I’ll take you to the hidden gems where I find designer clothes at regular store prices. Don’t worry, Mary—big sis has ya covered. Now, I have to go. My timer just went off, and Mrs. Garcia wants to be blonde, not bald. Catch you later.”

“Thanks, Alice.”

An hour after receiving the invitation, and still brimming with delight, I set out to compose my reply to Catherine Beech. Bringing up the Literary Laurels website, I clicked on her biography. The headshot portrait was of a handsome, dignified woman with short silver and gray hair and glasses. Her accolades included twenty-four books, ten literary award trophies, notoriety as an LGBTQ activist, having headed several agencies, an award from the mayor of Indianapolis for helping organize the city’s first Pride Parade in 2005, and other business, community, and writing achievements dating back to her college years. It was humbling for me to read. What would articles say about me twenty years from now?

“OK, Furball,” I announced. By then he had made himself comfortable sprawled across the loveseat, trying to obscure every inch of the upholstery with his hairy bulk. “I’m a successful, professional, award-winning, best-selling author responding with casual politeness to this totally awesome request to be a presenter. What do I say that’s neither too lavish nor too arrogant?”

Scrunching my brows and pursing my lips, I deliberated and plonked out words. “Thank you for reaching out to me. I am honored to accept your invitation and will prepare a worthy masterclass for authors aspiring to add heat to their romantic scenes. Please reply with guidelines for the presentation, including specifics you’d like me to emphasize or exclude.”

I proofread the lines and thought about what else to say. “Please add me to the schedule and send the relevant information about the exciting four-day event. I was just about to reserve a vendor table. Is it too much trouble to request one near Tammy Fairfield’s?”

OK, wrap this up; it isn’t supposed to be an epic fantasy series. I drummed my fingers on my laptop while conjuring up a closing. I was only a few chapters shy of completing the first draft of my work in progress and simply couldn’t set it aside while I was on a roll, but composing my presentation and creating slides and handouts just became my next priority. Sure, I’d spent twelve years teaching seventh and eighth graders and was comfortable with public speaking, but this was entirely different. I’d seldom hosted speaking events for adults, and me ? Teaching other authors? There would be women in my audience far more accomplished and recognized than I was. Would they be judging me? Waiting for me to say something stupid? Smiling and thinking, “Why on earth did Ms. Beech pick that loser when I would have far more meaningful advice to give?”

But I had been invited, so the impeccable Catherine Beech must have seen some potential in me … or at least somebody on the conference staff had. I wonder if I was a second or third choice and the more noteworthy authors couldn’t make it this year? It didn’t matter. This was a tremendous opportunity for me and, being a finalist for three awards, I was bound to place in one of them. Of course, some other authors would be jealous. That was a given. But most of us comprised a family, highly supportive of each other, and I knew Tammy would celebrate with me even if a few turned up their noses at a relative newcomer.

I typed in my concluding paragraph. “Thank you for this wonderful opportunity to share and give back to our community and thank you for blazing a trail for sapphic authors of my generation to follow. I look forward to doing my small part to make this year’s conference the best yet. Sincerely, Aspen Wolfe.”

Relaxing, I reread her letter and my response three times before hitting the send button. Then my phone rang. “Hello?”

“What do you mean you deleted your social media accounts?” scolded an outraged Tammy Fairfield.

I heard her wife’s distinctive British accent in the background. “Who deleted their account?”

“Aspen,” Tammy blew out impatiently.

“I had to,” I insisted in my defense. “You know what’s been going on. SapphicLover69’s rabid stalking got to be too much. I left a stressful job to write because I love it and this crazy person—”

“I know, honey,” Tammy responded with more empathy. “I just hate to see it. Maybe you could let things cool off for a while and come back. You could do the initial thing, like R.B. Taylor and Q.L. Shade. What’s your middle initial?”

A tinge of guilt jabbed me in the gut. Tammy had been helping me out for years, and I considered her a real-life friend. Still, I hadn’t told her my legal name.

“It doesn’t matter,” she forged ahead. “We can call you A.J. Wolfe because it sounds good. I just hate seein’ that friggin’ psycho get the better of you.”

“Thanks. I fought it as long as I could—even talked to a lawyer friend of my dad’s, and he said there just isn’t enough regulation over the internet and, because she’s only run her mouth, I don’t have a legal recourse.”

I had thought about creating a dummy account under a fictitious name, so I could at least rejoin all my groups and mention my books, name them as reading recs, or even post reviews just to keep them relevant. Plus, I’d be having a new release before the conference met in June. But that wouldn’t work either. Suspicions were flying around the sapphic book world because of fake authors—I mean a man writing under a woman’s pen name and pretending to be a woman while infiltrating our groups, authors generating a dozen fake identities to talk up their books and make them appear wildly popular, and old, straight women posting author photos and bios of hot, young lesbians to lure in an audience. And who knows? Maybe some of them or others were using AI to write books under various names. If they were, I knew it was only because they were desperately trying to pay their bills without capitulating and returning to a numbing nine-to-five job.

Some things are simply more important than money—doing what makes me happy and maintaining my integrity are two of them. I wouldn’t stoop to catfishing.

“Now.” The eagerness in Tammy’s tenor voice revealed the broad smile she must have been sporting. “Tell me about this conference presentation. I’m so proud of you!”