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“No worries,” Victoria says. “We never get started until everyone arrives.”
April smiles, nervously, and sits beside me in the booth. She starts unraveling her layers of clothing and bags. My nose scrunches when I get a whiff of Griffin’s spit, which must have soaked through.
April is a stay-at-home mother of two. I can never remember how old her kids are, but they’re both too young to be in any form of school. April’s days and evenings are fully devoted to her family. She only carves out an hour a week for herself, and she shares that time with us.
“Don’t worry about it,” Danielle tells her. “You need this break more than any of us.” She raises a hand, trying to get our waitress’ attention. “And you need a drink.”
“Some liquid courage to get the creative juices flowing.” April smiles but there’s no hiding the exhaustion etched on her face.
And then there’s me. I had an entire day to do nothing, and I couldn’t come up with a single idea.
“Who wants to go first?” Victoria asks.
“Me,” I say quickly. Better to rip this Band-Aid off and start nursing the sting with booze. The story I’ve selected is something I wrote ages ago, back when I was still in college. It’s a shitty story about a young woman who is convinced her nightmares can predict the future. I came up with the idea when I was deep into a Stephen King kick. It took several attempts, this story included, for me to realize King has an ease for the supernatural I don’t possess.
Still, after I share it with the group, the other women are complimentary.
“Love the premise,” Victoria says.
“It’s different from what you normally write,” April adds. “In a good way, of course.”
“Really psychological,” Danielle adds. “It reminds me of something Dean Koontz would write.”
“Thanks, guys.” I smile weakly, staring into my lap. It’s not my best work and they’re all too kind to say it. At least my turn is over, and I won’t have to worry about sharing with the group again for an entire week. “It’s been hard trying to find something new to write since I finishedNight Beat. I’ve been searching through old folders, looking for anything that feels fresh.”
“Same thing happens whenever I finish a large project. The brain needs time to decompress. That was a good pick,” Victoria says. “You know, if you wanted to stick with it, the deadline forMystery Magazine’s writing contest isn’t until the end of the month.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “Short stories have never been my specialty. It’s more of a palette cleanser than anything.”
Not only are our daily commitments outside of writing different, but so is the way we each approach our craft. Victoria self-publishes Christie-esque tales about little old ladies solving murders. Her work has a loyal readership, and she devotes the rest of her time to her creative writing students, something I respect.
Surprisingly, April writes horror stories. It’s quite funny to think she copes with the hardships of parenting by writing about grisly, gory crimes. She says she needs something to balance out the constant stream ofPeppa PigandMickey Mouse Clubhouse. Like me, she’s just finished her first manuscript, and has submitted it to agents. She relies on her husband’s income, so even though I know she’d be thrilled to get published, the stakes don’t seem quite as high.
Danielle uses her legal knowledge and experiences in the court room to write high-octane legal thrillers. Most of her manuscripts revolve around detectives and attorneys. I can’t help picturing Olivia Benson and the rest of theLaw and Order: SVUgang every time she shares a new story with the group. Ifwriting what you know works, Danielle will be a lawyer turned novelist in no time.
My genre is domestic suspense. I’ve always been drawn to books that focus on the everyday person’s reaction to crime. Writing about serial killers and procedure doesn’t do it for me; I’d rather write about the bagger at the grocery store who has a girl locked in his basement, or the agoraphobic woman across the street who thinks her neighbor is a murderer. It’s the way the most obscure crimes can still weasel their way into a “normal” person’s life that fascinates me.
Then again, perhaps the real reason I write about crime is deeper than that. It’s a way for me to process my own experiences. When I’m writing, I can take back some of the control I lack in my real life, invent a different ending. It never fully erases my past, but it helps.
“So, what do you think?” April says, making eye contact with each of us. My eyes fall to the table, my cheeks blushing with shame. I’ve been so lost in thought, I hardly paid attention to what she just shared.
“I think it’s brilliant,” Danielle says. “An agent would be crazy not to request the full manuscript.”
Ah, so April must have read her most recent query letter. Not only do we critique each other’s stories, but our letters and submissions forms, too. We act as a confidence boost to one another when we need it most. And really, if it weren’t for these women, I wouldn’t have any support for my writing at all.
“Good luck,” I tell her. “It really is a brilliant book.”
April beams with pride, closing her laptop as Victoria begins reading her story, followed by Danielle. I try my best to listen, but inevitably, my thoughts trail away. It’s intimidating listening to others, especially those I deem more talented than me. Some days it pushes me to be better. Other days, like today, it only highlights my own failures.
Before I know it, our hour is over, and everyone is packing up their belongings.
“Same time next week?” Danielle asks, her freshly manicured nails catching the light as she reaches for her satchel.
“Actually, I wanted to propose an idea,” Victoria says, splaying her fingers wide. “Seeing as it’s November, I thought we could add the pressure. Let’s up our visits to twice a week for NaNoWriMo.”
National Novel Writing Month. It’s a popular challenge in the writing community where writers aim to write 50,000 words during November, the bare bones of a novel. I’ve never been successful at it, but other writers, like Victoria, swear by it. Her first self-published book was a byproduct of NaNoWriMo.
“I’m up for a challenge,” Danielle says. “My best work happens under a deadline.”