There are certain perks to being best friends with Tarryn Fisher for over ten years. For one, I get to be the godmother of her children. Two, she paired me up with my puppy soulmate, Scout. She created Senna—the main character of Mud Vein—after me.
I mean, there are just too many to name. Of course it’s always a fringe benefit reading her books when they are fresh out of her brain before anyone else gets to.
You think I’m bragging.
Wait until we get to the downside of this prestigious position.
She makes me eat all these wonderful foods with her and I get fat and she doesn’t.
She tries to rip my clothes off me when we drink too much.
She interrogates me about myself and then tells me my answers are stupid.
Ask her about Joseph Gordon Levitt.
And do you know how hard it is to read chunks of her books, and then have to wait for her to write more of it?
Everyone is so happy on a Tarryn Fisher release day because they get to buy her book and binge read it. From beginning to end. Cover to cover. Instant gratification. You lucky dogs.
Do you know the sheer hell of reading three-quarters of her manuscript (which, you know from reading my plotting post, is right near the climax), and then the words just stop? They just aren’t there anymore? NO MORE WORDS.
It’s like this:
See? No words. Infinite space.
And I grab my phone with a manic intention of paying for some upgraded membership that will deliver the rest to my inbox, or trolling some pirating website that may have posted it for free and risk getting a virus on my computer. Then I drop my phone and gaze across the room, my glossy eyes landing on probably a framed picture of Tarryn and me, and it hits me…
…there is no ending yet. It doesn’t exist. The words are still swirling around in her brain.
So I text her.
Me: omg I’m loving this. Do you have more to send?
Tarryn: no, I just finished that chapter. Idk if I like it. It’s driving me crazy.
Me: well what are you gonna do next? How are you gonna fix that?
Tarryn: idk (insert shrugging brunette emoji)
Me: idk what you’re gonna do. I mean, how the HELL are you gonna get Yara out of this.
Tarryn: So when are you coming to see me?
Do you see? How infuriating???
I finally got the rest of the book over the weekend, and I can honestly say, without giving anything away, this might be my new Fisher favorite. When she had left me last chapter-less, I didn’t know how she was going to end it, and I’m a pretty good predictor of books. I mean, I knew the ending of Girl on the Train like, a quarter of the way through. But I wracked my brain on this one and all I knew was that my heart was going to be mangled, either way.
She did it. Perfectly.
My heart was both broken and full. It was like someone took a hammer and shattered it into little glass pieces, and then took a pitcher of whatever is in our hearts when we say our hearts are full, and poured it all over the glass shards. Then it all gelled together into this living, breathing Jell-O mold and now that’s what I have for an aortic pump. That’s what’s pushing blood and new life through my veins.
I remember when Tarryn was writing The Opportunist. I have in my bedroom about four early versions of the book, before it was even named The Opportunist, when the current first chapter wasn’t even in the manuscript. They’re printed as Word Documents inside a pink zebra-striped folder. We were so young then, and as I was reading AWKAP, I was getting vivid flashbacks of The Opportunist. It was nostalgic. It was warm and fuzzy and absolutely terrifying.
AWKAP is like in an alternate universe of TO. Oh, it’s the same in the sense that everyone is way prettier and more clever than I, but it was like reading TO in a mirror. Our star-crossed lovers, the ones that were made for each other. The ones that are so broken in all the right places, that you hurt for them before they manage to hurt themselves. Their love is an art so perfect, it’s ominous.
Then the fall from grace—you try to brace yourself for it, you think you’re ready. But it’s so tragic you can’t breathe. And just when you think they’ve hit rock bottom, oh. My. Lord. They manage to split the earth and plunge into hell.
I can tell you to expect the heartbreak, to expect the life altering, and yet …
You just can’t expect anything.
See for yourself. Tarryn is letting me give you sneak peek. Just don’t forget – you read it here first (winks, tongue clicks, and air guns).
The band’s in London November 12th. Want to catch up?
So casual. So nonchalant. You’d think we were only acquaintances, that we’d once sipped a couple of beers together instead of tattooing love on our skin and reciting marriage vows. I read the e-mail again and analyze the shit out of it. How can I not? I count out the words: thirteen. The punctuation: four. His name, my name. They used to go together. A flippant, casual turn of the phrase: catch up. In the end, there’s only so much psychoanalyzing you can do to a thirteen-word e-mail. I move on with my life, feeling rather pathetic. But not before I e-mail him back. And okay, sure, I don’t move on with my life. I am stuck. What does moving on entail? Forgetting? Forgiving? Being happy? Besides, I know what he wants to talk about. I know why he’s coming.
Yeah, sounds good. Let me know when and where.
My e-mail is a word shorter.
I’m that petty.