Page 38 of The Deepest Lake

“Especially for the writers who might need extra handholding. This one, for example.” She points to a pile of pages on top of the rest. “ZAHARA” is written on the footer.

Eva’s eyes brighten again. “Is she still under contract with Glassnote?”

I’ve never heard of Glassnote.

“Trish read Zahara’s cover email—something about a bad boyfriend and Las Vegas, but I didn’t catch the rest. You get to sample her story first.”

“Great,” I say, scooping up the manuscript printouts. “Is this all of them?”

“We might get some emailed last minute. And remember: if you have only cover notes and no pages, focus on the writer.”

Okay, I can’t pretend to understand that. In college writing workshops, we were always told to focus on the pages.

“I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m stalking them online,” I say.

Eva blinks and inhales, slowly.

“Sorry,” I say. “Initiative. Right.”

Eva’s smile wilts. She puts her fingers to her temples, like she has a headache.

“Anything else you’d like to ask me today? You’re here to help me, but you’re here to help yourself, too, right?”

“Right,” I repeat, as if it’s that simple. Help her. Help myself. And also help her feel good that she’s helping me.

“That’s why I asked you for an essay when I hired you. If you’re going to audit any part of the workshop, I need to see your writing. I want to help you, Juliet May. I always have time for that. Every woman needs a mentor.”

I’m relieved that Eva hasn’t forgotten she used that word before and that even though I haven’t provided any proof of my abilities, she’s still giving me the benefit of the doubt. I think back to what I wrote and feel panic. Even as a shitty first draft, it’s still not good enough.

Her instructions were clear: I was supposed to have the essay finished this morning. And then again, she’s asked if I have any questions. It’s the oldest trick in the book, one that worked in high school and in college. Get the prof talking. He might forget about the quiz he had planned or the deadline he already assigned.

“Dialogue,” I blurt. “Your books are amazing, with these long scenes that feel just like life. Everything your mother said when you came back from London, just for one example. Her voice, and the long speech she made about your teenage years. It’s incredible.”

Eva nods, looking bored. She rotates one finger in the air as if to say, Keep going. Get to your point.

“I mean . . . this is basic, but did you take notes right after that argument? Like, in a diary? Or did you try to remember when you started the book a year later?”

Yes, I’m trying to distract her, but at the same time, it’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask. I’ve never understood how memoirists can make the past so cinematically vivid. Are the most important moments intrinsically sticky? Or do good writers have a way to access what’s hidden but not yet lost? I have to assume it’s something wrong with me—my poor memory, or laziness, or some trick I just haven’t learned yet. I want to be good at dialogue. I want to be deserving of this opportunity. But Eva’s expression tells me I should understand this all by now. It’s Memoir 101.

Eva’s phone rings again.

“Do you see?” she points at the offending phone. “This is why I can’t write here. The workshop hasn’t even started, and . . . this.”

I see the name on the caller ID.

ADARSHA.

I thought Eva was no longer speaking to her.

“Do you know she wanted to be a writer, too?”

“Your daughter?”

“That’s the one. But she wouldn’t accept any help. No editing advice, no introductions or referrals, nothing. And so, she’s a failure. Midthirties and she hasn’t published a single book. Can you believe I’m related to someone that stubborn—and stupid?”

I shrug my shoulders—a quick, nervous twitch.

The name keeps flashing: ADARSHA.