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The Book

November 11, 2012

I’ve been sitting on a book idea for some time now.  The plot is as clear as daylight in my mind.  Upon the prodding of some friends and an absence of creativity in my life, I’ve decided to give it a go.  In the grand scheme of things, it is a fictional sports-based love story.

I’ll be sharing snippits of the book throughout the writing process.  I would love all of your feedback on it.  This is its first page!

The thin white numbers on my iPhone read 5:04 a.m.  “This better be good,” I thought as I listened to the chiming sound of my phone ringing on the nightstand next to my bed.  I tousled off from my chest the Hudson Park bedspread my agent, the ever-so-shrewd but apparently polite, Eric Bassow, sent as a housewarming gift when I moved to Los Angeles last month.  The only signs that morning was near were the faint hint of the streetlight and building sound of traffic rolling in through my apartment window on Hollywood Boulevard.

They say that once you’ve “made it” your phone never stops ringing.  In the last month, I’ve been told by more people than I can count that I’ve “made it.”  The barista at the coffee shop on Santa Monica Boulevard that I frequented until I realized it was a “celebrity hotbed.”  The bartender who served up Westsides like they were made out of water at Bar Marmont.  The fit goddess in Lulu Lemon apparel who led me through the tortuous rigor of bar class every Saturday morning.  They all said it.  “You’ve made it, Abigail Grace.”  I know that everyone is saying it these days.  I still haven’t heard him say it, though.

Whoever said your phone never stops ringing once you’ve made it wasn’t lying.  The problem though, is it’s not like your best friends are calling you all of the time to chuckle over your most recent disaster date.  No. It’s agents.  Managers.  Publicists.  Stylists.  That kid you gave your number to in 8th grade who apparently never lost it.  And then there’s my Dad, who every day this last month has called to say, “Hey Abs, it’s me.  Just calling to see how you’re doing.  Call me back.”  Yes, I’ve made it.  But even though I’m here, my heart is still fragile.  My father, though, unlike the thoughtless person calling now is at least considerate enough to wait until there is no question that I am awake before calling.

I reach my hand over to my nightstand, unplug my phone from the charger and maneuver it, dressed in its flowery Lily Pulitzer case, so that it is just inches above my face.  I squint, annoyingly trying to learn the identity of my early morning caller.  Throwing my head backwards onto my pillow, I see “HILARY BUSBY” in bold letters spanning the space of my phone.  Although it took everything in me not to hit the red “ignore button” and fall back into the sweet dream where his face was grazing mine, I hit “answer.”

“This better be good, Hil.”

I met Hilary during my first week of college at Georgia State College in Macon, Georgia.  The two of us and what would become our other best friend, the ever-so-sophisticated Reagan Brand, ended up pledging Alpha Zeta Sorority together.  Through designing a series of skimpy outfits for fraternity exchanges, competing in make out contests on 21st birthdays, losing our morals on spring break trips to Panama City and jumping around in short skirts every Saturday morning as GSC cheerleaders, the three of us became an inseparable trio.  Yet, given all that we enjoyed together, truth be told, we each couldn’t be more different from one another.

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