Page 107 of Words of Love

I’m writing for two reasons. The first is that my agent and editor both loved the revision ofTripwire. They said Kane and Patricia’s romance was what they’d been hoping for. We’re going to talk about revising the romance in the previous two books and issuing updated editions to keep it consistent. Everyone is happy.

So, thank you again. It’s your book, too.

Second…it’s tough to admit I’m a writer who’s lousy with words. But I want to tell you some things I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—before. This is a feeble but honest way of telling you that I trust you. I always have, even when I was telling myself I had to avoid you. Took me a while to admit I was avoiding you not because you’re a reporter, but because of all the things you could make mefeel. See? I can even write that word now. :)

Lincoln is five years older than me. We were friends when we were kids…at least, that’s how I remember it. Tagging around after my older brother, playing video games, etc. He was good at everything, not just writing. Academics, sports, you name it. Seemed like he could do it all effortlessly.

I guess things got bad when I started school because our father set us up to compete. But I couldn’t compete with my brother in anything…academics, writing, girls, whatever. That was just a fact.

Lincoln was great at all subjects, but teachers started noticing his talent for writing when he was in third grade. In fifth grade, he won a national youth writing award. I had a harder time with stuff…I liked writing, but I struggled with most other subjects. I hated team sports, and I didn’t have a lot of friends.

It wasn’t long before I figured out that if I caused trouble, people would stop noticing I wasn’t as good as my brother in anything. If he was the golden boy, I’d be the troublemaker. You can imagine how that went over with my parents. There was a lot of fighting, threats, accusations, blame.

For a couple of months, I had an outlet in boxing. Then my father put Lincoln into training too, which pissed me off. I didn’t want to compete with him again, but I refused to give it up. It was the only way I was better than him. I think he stopped boxing when he went to college, but he was a top-ranked student, full scholarship, the whole works.

I dropped out of high-school and took a few jobs in the city for a couple of years. One day, I was leafing throughNew Yorkmagazine and saw an article about the hundredth anniversary of Folio Publishing. There was an extensive profile of the Atwoods, including interviews with my parents and a whole piece about Lincoln, who was famous for his book deal by then.

There was no mention of me anywhere in the article, which was fine because I didn’t care about magazine profiles anyway. And my parents had always tried to keep me in the background, so getting omitted from an article wasn’t a surprise.

But the reporter had written about the Atwoods’only son, Lincoln. My parents talked about him as if he were their only child. My father even said they had one child. The profile on Lincoln didn’t mention any siblings, much less a brother. It was like they’d obliterated me from existence.

I could have left it alone. Not cared. But I was hot-headed and angry…and I didn’t leave it alone. You know that old saying, the pen is mightier than the sword? I knew the best way to get back at my illustrious literary family was to write about them.

So I did. I was living in this shithole apartment in Brooklyn, working construction. Every night, I’d go back home and write. It was fiction, but thinly veiled. After I finished the manuscript, I got an agent and eventually landed a contract.

When the book was published—under my given name, Sam Atwood—the press went crazy over all the salacious details, trying to figure out what was true and what was hyperbole. Most of it was true.

As I’d expected, my parents were furious that I’d divulge any secrets, even under the guise of fiction. My father threatened bookstores and publishers, telling them to bury the “piece of trash,” as he called it. Critics either didn’t bother with it or wrote scathing reviews.

But the book did some damage before it went out of print. That was as much as I’d wanted, I guess. To inflict some wounds before I left New York for good. But it was also a dividing line. Ever since, I’ve felt like I had a life before all that and then after.

Theafterhas been writing as Sam Harris, traveling, and having minimal contact with my family. I went back to NY when my mother died, but mostly I’ve lived in the “after.”

You’re the first person who has ever made me want to put “happily ever” in front of that word.

Thanks for being Sunny Side Up,

Sam