Read An Excerpt From 'Main Character Energy' by Jamie Varon

Featuring family drama, a juicy romance subplot, and some publishing behind-the-scenes, Main Character Energy is ultimately like getting a pep talk from your best friends.

Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Jamie Varon’s Main Character Energy, which is out September 5th.

Poppy Banks would rather be writing mysteries than writing listicles for her dead-end job at Thought Buzz. But after a series of rejections, she’s ready to accept life on the sidelines as a plus-size woman. Her aunt Margot is the one person unwilling to give up on her niece’s dreams and tells her so at their secret yearly lunches.

But all of Poppy’s beliefs about herself are challenged when her beloved aunt dies and leaves her niece a grand surprise—a trip to her villa in the French Riviera. There, she learns her aunt intends to leave her stunning villa and secretive writer’s residency to Poppy—if she can finish her novel in six months.

When the writing countdown begins, Poppy realizes she has more to confront than her writer’s block. Family drama, complicated romances and self-doubt all threaten to throw her off course. In this fun and heartwarming debut, Poppy must decide if she can live up to her aunt’s—and her own—desire to be the main character in her own life.

When I met my aunt for the first time, I expected to hate her. After all, she had been the villain in my mom’s story since I was a kid. They hadn’t talked in nearly twenty years and every time I brought her up, my mom would shut me down. I didn’t know what caused their fracture, but my mom’s anger was enough to make me believe that Aunt Margot was the problem.

I never wanted to go behind my mom’s back and betray her trust, but when Margot contacted me in secret, I knew I had to finally meet my elusive aunt.

It was a shock to me that our first visit felt like a reunion.

I thought she’d be hard-edged and critical like my mom was, but instead, she was warm and effusive. I was pulled into her comforting orbit immediately.

We convened in Malibu on a rainy, moody February afternoon. I was twenty-three years old and hopeful, brash, naive. We ate at a cliff-side restaurant, waves crashing against the rocks below us. I didn’t know this would be the start of an annual tradition where I’d meet her for lunch once a year in February, always at the same place, the same order—a sacred ritual just for us.

“Poppy,” she said, her eyes crinkling, her hands outstretched for me to grab them. She seemed ready to cry and I sat there feeling slightly guarded and guilty. I wasn’t supposed to be here. If my mom knew I was meeting with Margot, she wouldn’t be happy. But curiosity had won out.

“Hi,” I said, and the one question that had plagued me slipped from my lips before I could stop it. “What happened between you and my mom?”

Her face clouded over for just a fraction of a second before she waved me off and said, “That’s neither here nor there. Tell me about you. What do you love, Poppy? What lights you up? Who do you want to be when you grow up?”

There was a magic to Aunt Margot. It was clear immediately. I felt myself open up like a blooming sunflower in her presence. A smile spread across my face, the initial guardedness falling away like petals to the ground.

Looking at Margot was like looking at myself in the future. Long, loosely waved, chestnut-brown hair, hers streaked with natural gray, mine highlighted by caramel coloring. Almond-shaped eyes. Hers, moody gray-blue. Mine, vibrant green. Curvy bodies. Heart-shaped faces, reddened at the cheeks. Full lips tinted a cherry red, and straight teeth.

Where we differed was that she was so at ease in her body. She made me feel stronger, simply because she was so herself. Her body wasn’t an apology. She existed as if everything about her were a celebration. She wasn’t braced for the world, like I felt I was. When she spoke to the servers at our lunches, they were all mesmerized by her. She had the kind of wide-open soul that invited everyone in. She had confidence that radiated outward. I basked in it, like it was sunlight after an endless winter.

I wanted to be as carefree as her.

I still do. She made me feel bold.

“What lights me up? Writing,” I told her, jutting my chin up. “I want to write books.”

Her face beamed into a wide smile.

“That’s wonderful, Poppy,” she said. “Are you writing now?”

“Yes,” I told her. “I’m working on a novel. A thriller, actually.”

Margot looked delighted.

“I love thrillers, too,” she said. “Who’s your favorite author?”

“PJ Latisse,” I said quickly.

Margot sported a grin and said, “Oh, I love their books.”

“You don’t think it’s silly?” I asked, my voice low. “To want to be an author? My mom thinks I’m wasting my time.”

My relationship with my mom was beginning to deteriorate and maybe that’s why I met Margot—to rebel against my mom and all her rough edges. I was realizing I could have agency over my beliefs about the world and myself. She’d spent my childhood urging me to lose weight, forcing me on various fad diets, hoping I would become thin like her. But my body was unruly then. Still is. It didn’t respond to her shame, but my mind did. And I felt cloaked in it.

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My mom believed a thin body, handed over like a sacrifice, made dreams come true. Or at least, a thin body was the initial conduit for a good life. Without it, possibilities limit and dwindle. If I did nothing with my life except lose weight and find some man to marry me, it seemed like that would make my mom the happiest. She had virtually no patience or interest in my dreams or aspirations.

“Silly?” Margot asked, cocking her head to the side. “To follow your dreams? Never.”

“Mom says dreams don’t pay the bills.” I shrugged. “But I have to try, don’t I?”

“You always have to try,” Margot said with a sharp nod of her head. “It’s your life, not hers, after all.”

“Hmm,” I said, nodding. For years, I’d been writing at night, during stolen time. I’d been reading my whole life and books were my first love. All I’d ever wanted was to be a writer.

“Remember this, Poppy. For some people, it works out,” Margot said with authority. “You don’t know if it will for you until you try. If you love it, don’t give up on it. Ever. No matter what anyone says.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling, feeling supported and buoyed for the first time ever.

“Something I always say: at the very least, do it for the plot. Do it for the story. Be bold in life, mostly because not being bold is boring as hell.” Margot tipped her head back in glittery laughter and I felt my chest expand in hope.

“The last thing I’d ever want to be is boring,” I replied.

“Good.” Margot nodded firmly, then clapped. “Now, tell me all about what I’ve missed for the last twenty-three years of your life. Don’t skimp on a single detail!” Margot’s hands framed her jaw and she rested on her elbows, waiting with undisguised glee.

This Margot was the villain in my mom’s story? But, she was lovely. I spent the rest of the lunch catching her up, and she listened with rapt interest. It was the most seen and heard I’d felt in a long time.

And so, when she asked if we could meet again the next year, I said yes. And it became our annual tradition. I secreted the visits away from my mom and never told her about any of them. I kept that first lunch—and future lunches—with Margot in my pocket like a precious stone I could rub my fingers on for luck, support, and the unconditional love I longed for.