Love, Unwritten: Chapter 1 Sneak Peek

Hi lovelies! It's been a minute since I've written fiction. And once you read this first chapter of my newest project, you might begin to understand why. Writing happily ever afters isn't the easiest when you're longing for one of your own. What once was used as an escape becomes the thing you need to escape. It's been nearly a year since I wrote a novel. But now, like Juliet, I'm eager to begin again, to start a new chapter as a writer.

The Letters of Love series will be a series of standalone romances set in goregous destinations that I've traveled to. My recent trip to Paris, France and stay at the 126-year-old Hotel Regina Louvre is what inspired this novel. Each book will feature a female protagonist unlearning everything she thought was love and discovering true love. Sometimes that includes learning to love your self or like Juliet, learning to fall back in love with your childhood dreams.

I am the romance author who's struggled to write romance because lasting love feels unattainable. I am the writer learning to fall back in love with her craft.

This story will be one of healing for me, and therefore, I will not rush it. I can't say when this novel will release. Perhaps later this year? Perhaps next fall? What I can say is, I am trying again. And the ideas I have for this book make me so excited. I hope this chapter gets you excited too. 🤍

Chapter 1

The Silence Between Chapters

Sunlight filters in from the twelve-foot arched windows of my Brooklyn apartment. The warmth from the rays soothes my skin as I sink onto the sofa with a cup of chai tea in hand. Autumn in New York is my favorite. From farmer’s markets to the changing leaves to the anticipation of the Starbucks fall menu to writing in my office while the aroma of my cinnamon-scented candle fills my nostrils, and the brilliant voice of Ella Fitzgerald drifts in from the living room, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. This time of year has always been my favorite time to write. Perhaps that’s why I find myself thinking about it more and more. Or maybe it’s the pressure from my agent?

My lips draw into a half smile as I remember the joy of discovering my next book idea, the angst as I’d struggle to sleep while new dialogue emerged in my head, and the amusement as Pasha would jump onto my desk at the most inopportune times. Speaking of…

Pasha slinks in from the kitchen, stretches himself out on the faux-Persian rug, before joining me on the couch. I stroke his grey back while he dips his tongue into my tea. “Well, there goes that.” I sigh and place the cup on the coffee table right next to the laptop I can’t remember the last time I used for anything other than paying bills and doing my taxes. Actually, no. I can remember.

As Pasha makes haste toward the chai tea latte that’s now his, I remember the events of five years ago as if they were yesterday. I bite my lip as I remember sitting in front of my computer with tears streaming down my face, fingers aching at the thought of typing one more word. That book, the last one I wrote was never supposed to be the last. Well. In a way, it was.

Mine to Love was supposed to be the last book I wrote before walking into my own happily-ever-after. It was supposed to be the end and the beginning—the end of my longest standing series, the end of a chapter in my life that had stretched far too long. After spending most of my life feeling like a burden, unwanted by everyone, dreaming of love, dreaming of an escape from one reality to the next—I thought I’d found him. I thought I found love. I thought all those silent and not-so-silent prayers had been answered. I thought God was about to out-do every fairytale ending I’ve ever written. I thought it was finally my turn, my story.

When I began writing my last book, I was the happiest I’d ever been. Callum and I had been together for three years. He’d been a part of some of my biggest chapters. After three years, I had every reason to believe it was time for our biggest chapter.

My agent, Farrah, had approved the plot and I was a month into writing the work that was supposed to be my biggest happily-ever-after yet—a love inspired by the story I was finally living—when Mr. Would Be decided he would not be mine to love. Every day that followed was pure hell as I buried my own pain to create a love story I no longer believed in. When it was finally done, I guess so was I. But…

I shake my head. My ex stole a lot from me, but did he really steal my ability to write romance? Did he really shatter my belief in a love that lasts? No. That was everything that happened after.

I jump—as does Pasha—as Lydia slams the door behind her. She’s the kind of girl whose presence you feel before you see her. Or at least, hear. Pasha immediately hisses and scampers off to my office as the gorgeous Indian beauty waltzes in carrying bags of couture. Lydia was my stylist when I did the press tour for my first book. We’ve been friends, and roommates, ever since despite our polar opposite personalities. She’s the fire to my water. The voice to my silent monologue. And the one who made sure I didn’t drown in a pool of my own vomit when Callum left.

“Hey, lovely,” she says as she tosses the garment bags that probably weigh more than her on the sofa. “Whatcha up to?” But before I can answer, the phone rings. Without looking, I know who it is. There’s a short list of people who’d call me. A spam salesman. Sometimes I answer for the company. The delivery boy when he can’t find the apartment. And…

“Farrah,” I answer on the third ring. That’s it. No how are you? No what you do want? I know how she is, and I know what she wants. She’s been asking the same question for the last five years. When’s the next book?

“Juliet,” she says. I can practically see the disappointment on her face despite the East River between us. “I’ve got news.”

“Oh, well, that’s new.” Crap. Did I say that out-loud? She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t scold. The only noise that fills the static between us is a heavy sigh. My stomach twists. Well, that is new. Normally, phone calls from Farrah make me feel numb and nothing more. Am I actually starting to care again?

“Listen, JJ, I know I’m not your favorite phone call, and after today, you may not even take my calls.” My brows furrow and I put the phone on speaker so Lydia can listen in. “It’s just…I haven’t been hassling you for another book for no reason. I…I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

I glance at Lydia as my mouth goes dry. Suddenly, the last book I wrote isn’t the memory that comes to me when I think of writing. Instead, it’s the first. And as Farrah delivers the do-or-die news, it isn’t thirty-one-year-old, jaded, hopeless Juliet who receives it. It’s fifteen-year-old Juliet James who just wanted a place she belonged, and so she created that place with black ink.

“As you know, our agency has grown tremendously since you signed with us almost ten years ago. I should probably thank you for that. Your debut was a hit, an instant New York Times bestseller. And other aspiring authors saw that and thought we could make their dreams come true the way we did yours.” It was a dream come true, but like every love story I’ve ever known, even dreams eventually die. Yet, the rate at which my heart beats tells me this dream isn’t dead yet. At least, I hope it isn’t.

“What are you trying to say, Farrah?” I ask, my voice raspy as tears wet my eyes. Lydia reaches out and grabs hold of my hand.

“What I’m trying to say is, we don’t need you anymore.”

The silence that follows reminds me of all the almosts following Callum. Three years and a proposal that never came didn’t make me stop believing in love. It was every failed attempt after. Lydia assured me I’d rebound, find better, hotter, buffer. Just because he wasn’t my person didn’t mean there wasn’t someone out there waiting for me. And so, I opened myself up to love time and time again only to find a pattern. A pattern of almosts. A pattern of closeness followed by different versions of “I’m not ready.” Disappointment turned to numbness turned to silence. I have no words left when it comes to love or men or romance or writing, so you know what?

“Well, yeah, I hate it had to come to this too, Farrah, but maybe it’s for the best. I mean I’m clearly not what you need. I’m a romance writer who doesn’t believe in romance—the genre, the fantasy, or the reality. So, yeah, you’re better off without me.”

“Without you?” Farrah cuts off my self-deprecating speech. “Don’t you understand, Juliet? I’m not trying to do this without you. You were the first author I signed whose work I truly loved. The agency may not need you anymore. We have other authors bringing in plenty of revenue but, I still want you. The thing is, the higher-ups won’t let me keep you if you don’t give me a book to sell before the end of the year. It’s been five years, JJ. The royalties are drying up—for you and me both. And yet, it still costs the agency money to keep you on the roster.”

Now, it’s my turn to sigh. Though, as I sink back into the sofa, shrinking away from the phone and Lydia, I’m not sure if it’s a sigh of relief or dread.

“I…I don’t know if I can,” I whisper. As if sensing my dismay, Pasha reappears and hops onto my lap. He never liked Callum. None of the others even met him. I should’ve listened to him sooner and maybe I wouldn’t have wasted so much of my heart on the wrong man.

“Promise me, you’ll at least try.” Farrah’s voice drifts from the phone. “It’s October. You still have nearly three months to whip something out. And it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be something I can work with, something I can show the partners that proves you haven’t given up on us, on love.”

Tears drip down my cheeks as Pasha purrs against my chest. I have given up, haven’t I? Not just on writing and on romance, but on everything. I don’t go for walks like I used to, the new coffee blends don’t excite me in the same way. I live in pajamas, sweatpants, and all things cozy, because who cares? I haven’t cared. Maybe it’s time I start? But this deadline…

I stand up, grab the phone, and begin pacing. “Farrah, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for blowing you off all these years. You…you believed in me, in my work, when no one else did. And I’m so thankful for you, thankful enough that I want to try—if only for you—but we’re already halfway through October. I’m leaving for Paris in two days for my childhood best friend’s wedding. Then I have plans to go home for Thanksgiving and then there’s Christmas. I’m not saying any of these things are more important than salvaging my dream of being published author, but…I don’t know how to just switch my brain off from reality and re-enter the writer’s world. I don’t know if I have enough time.”

“Well, maybe you don’t have to switch your brain off from reality? Maybe you can let reality inspire something new?”

I scrunch my brows. “Reality is kind of what got me into this mess in the first place. Are you sure that’s the best strategy?”

“Oh, I don’t know, what better place to fall back in love than in the City of Love—even if all you do is fall back in love with writing? How long will you be in Paris?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Just three nights, and it’ll be jam-packed with jet lag and wedding festivities, which actually sucks because I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. I just…couldn’t afford to stay longer.” My how the mighty hath fallen. She’s not wrong that the royalties are drying up. I mean I’ve invested well, but I can’t live off my backlist forever.

“Tell you what? Send me your hotel deets, and I’ll extend your stay for a full week. Take time to explore the city and all it has to offer. Get inspired. Come home. And do what you do best, because JJ, you are one of the best. You just have to remember who you are. You have to find that spark again. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find it beneath the sparkling Eiffel Tower.”

I shake my head, but can’t ignore the smile spreading across my face. It’s so big my cheeks ache. I turn to Lydia and find her standing on the sofa, waiting for me to hang up so she can squeal and we can celebrate.

“Consider this my last investment in you until you give me another book. Will Paris be a fancy parting gift, or the start of your new chapter as a writer, as a woman?”

I bite my lip. The thought of writing romance again makes my skin crawl, but the thought of a week in Paris kind of makes it worth it. The least I can do is exactly what I’d wished every almost would do. I can try.

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The Vibe?

Bookish fall destination romance

Soulful millionaire MC

Sweet and cozy

Emotional

That's all...for now. (;