The Devil Wears Prada meets White Lotus in a story of colliding egos and shocking betrayal, as intoxicatingly ice-cold as the pink Prosecco that flows all weekend.Everything needs to be just right for bestselling mystery writer Faye Wader’s first ever fan weekend. Her sales might be slipping—only a little!—but her readers still love her enough to pony up for three days and two nights on Great Misery Island. The retreat is precisely planned, from the small batch artisanal donuts to the perimenopausal Mermaid Meditation, by Faye and her beleaguered assistant Jade—an aspiring author who can’t seem to finish her own novel.Faye’s long-time agent and editor will be there, as well as Faye’s number one fan, Peggy Mercer, who has been first in line at every one of Faye’s events. When news comes that the weekend will be crashed by glamorous, charismatic, rival novelist Abby Schuss, Faye thinks things can’t get worse … until one of the attendees is found dead in her room, setting off an unexpectedly murderous chain of events that make pre-pub anxiety seem like a day at the beach. How far is Faye willing to go to get exactly what she wants from her author weekend?The Author Weekend is a thrilling and hilarious dive into the dark heart of envy, and a glorious exploration of a woman of a certain age desperate to survive the dog-eat-dog world of publishing and control her own narrative.
Fans are idealists. Fantasizers. Their imaginations run wild with wish-fulfillment. They want to believe in the myth. They want to do everything the object of their obsession does, to inhabit their world completely: to wear what they wear, eat what they eat, feel what they feel. How disappointed would they be to know that I created Kitty in my own image: at best, a socially awkward loner at heart; at worst, a misanthrope. I'd always wanted to spare my readers the discomfort of my discomfort, my neediness and impatience-why should they suffer when all they've ever done is support me?-until the night I was overcome by FOMO.
Fans are idealists. Fantasizers. Their imaginations run wild with wish-fulfillment. They want to believe in the myth. They want to do everything the object of their obsession does, to inhabit their world completely: to wear what they wear, eat what they eat, feel what they feel. How disappointed would they be to know that I created Kitty in my own image: at best, a socially awkward loner at heart; at worst, a misanthrope. I'd always wanted to spare my readers the discomfort of my discomfort, my neediness and impatience-why should they suffer when all they've ever done is support me?-until the night I was overcome by FOMO.
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