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TWO

Most people dread Mondays, and I used to be one of them. Things changed when I became a member of the Mystery Maidens.

Ever since I dropped out of college, I’ve struggled to find common ground with others.

For so long, I was used to being alone, a prisoner to my past mistakes.

Writing brought me comfort, but it couldn’t cure my isolation from the world, and each time I received a black heart, I found myself retreating even more into my loneliness.

That was until I found the Mystery Maidens, a group of like-minded, same-aged crime writers.

For the first time in years, I had an opportunity to bond with others over a shared interest, and I jumped at the chance.

Once a week, we stake out the biggest booth at McCallie’s Pub. Known for pretentious draft beer and pricy charcuterie boards, the place caters to the thirty-and-up crowd, a more sophisticated vibe than the dive bars scattered around Whitaker University.

Victoria, the mother hen of our group, is the first to arrive, sitting in our booth at the back of the room, wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans and a thick turtleneck. She sips a glass of red wine and raises her hand like she’s hailing a taxi when she sees me.

“You’re early,” she says, making room for me to sit beside her.

“I’m off today,” I tell her, unwrapping my heavy scarf and placing it in my lap. Usually, I’m late because I’m trying to finish a last-minute writing session. Thanks to my writer’s block, I have nothing but time to kill on my day off, although I don’t plan on telling the rest of the group that.

“I’m excited about today’s meeting.” Victoria unzips her messenger bag and pulls out her laptop. “This story is dying for some input.”

“I’m sure it’s great,” I tell her.

Without a doubt, Victoria is the most talented writer in our group.

She has a long list of published articles and short stories, even a few awards.

Originally, she started Mystery Maidens as a critique group for her students over at Whitaker University, where she teaches creative writing.

When she realized most college students would rather spend their evenings going to keggers than discussing craft, she sought out adult members online.

April was the first to join, followed by Danielle, who recruited me.

A waitress comes over and takes my drink order—tequila and tonic with a lime wedge. Victoria sits across from me typing, her fingers rattling against the keys, like a pianist in the midst of composing a great symphony. My skin flushes with envy.

“Starting without me, I see,” says Danielle, the next to arrive.

“Just adding some finishing touches,” Victoria says. “I was telling Becca how I’m eager for some input. Something is missing, but I’m not sure what.”

Danielle sheds her camel-colored trench coat and sits across from me, carefully unpacking her satchel.

She’s always exquisitely dressed, especially on days she’s in court.

She joined the group after Victoria started making posts about it online.

As she tells the story, she was hesitant at first; her career as a lawyer keeps her plenty busy, but writing has always been a release for her, and she wanted to challenge herself.

“How about you, Becca?” Danielle asks. “Any good news from agents?”

“Nothing to report,” I say, feeling defeated. The only thing worse than holding onto this feeling is having to express it out loud.

“Don’t sweat it. You’re talented. It’s only a matter of time before you make it big, just keep focused,” Victoria says, always the encourager. “Working on anything new?”

“I’m editing a few short stories while I’m waiting to hear back about Night Beat ,” I say, opening my laptop.

It’s only a half-lie. I weeded through old documents to find an unfinished manuscript I could use today, although I doubt it will go anywhere.

I’d rather show up with something terrible than admit I have writer’s block.

It seems rude admitting that to this group of accomplished women.

They all have more on their plates than I do.

When Victoria is not on campus teaching, she’s grading her students’ work, yet she still finds time to churn out a new mystery novel every year and submit short stories to different literary magazines once a month.

Danielle works as a defense attorney, for Christ’s sake, but I’ve never once heard her complain about finding inspiration. And our final member, April, is?—

“Sorry I’m late.” April stops at the booth, out of breath. She has several bags hanging loosely from both arms. “Chase got held up at work, and right as I was headed out the door, Griffin spit up all over me.”

“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 finished Night 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 for Mystery 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 of Peppa Pig and Mickey 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 the Law and Order: SVU gang every time she shares a new story with the group.

If writing 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.”

“April?” Victoria asks. “We know you have the most going on outside of writing.”

“The hubs can handle the kids an extra night a week,” she says, giddily. “I think it would be fun, and another excuse to get me out of the house.”

Now, they’re all staring at me, waiting for a response. I can’t string a lousy paragraph together, let alone an entire novel, but I’m not going to be the one to opt out, not when the rest of them have found ways to make writing a priority.

“I’m in,” I say, hiding my discomfort behind a smile.

“Let’s meet at the same time this Thursday,” Victoria decides, raising her wine glass. “Let the games begin.”

We each raise our drinks and clink them together. As the dry, satisfying taste of tequila glides down my throat, I try not to think about the failures the following weeks could bring.

I bump shoulders and elbows as I make my way out of the pub and onto the street. The temperature has dropped, every exhale producing a cloud in front of my face. I’m about to turn in the direction of my car when I see something across the street.

A black heart.

It’s sticking to a parking meter beside a lamppost, the falling light illuminating it perfectly.

My own heart catches in my throat as I rush forward.

A bright light stings my eyes as a car in the road slams on its brakes, narrowly avoiding me.

The horn blares, but I continue forward, until my fingers are pressed against the cold metal.

My pulse slows. It isn’t a heart, after all, merely a black smiley face sticker, the front of the forehead ripped off. I sigh with relief. At least that’s one less thing to worry about tonight.