Page 14 of The Writer

“At least roll some silverware, huh?” He says this with far more kindness than he would give to anyone else in the restaurant. Mario likes me. I’m not sure why, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact he has daughters. One just graduated WU with a degree in clinical psychology. The oldest is in her final year of veterinary training.

“Fine,” I say, pulling the tub closer to me. The utensils gleam under the table light as I start sorting the knives and forks and spoons.

“I’ll join you,” he says. He grabs a thick stack of ironed table napkins and sits in the booth across from me.

“Sounds like you’re only looking for an excuse to sit down,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks. “Give an old man a break.” He lowers his voice and leans closer. “And I won’t tell Nikki I caught you back here on your lazy butt.”

I roll my eyes. Nikki takes the job far too seriously, riding my ass all shift. She uses her limited control over other people to her full advantage, micro-managing every other person to make herself feel somewhat elevated. She forgets Mario is the boss and that being on his good side trumps everything.

“Out of everyone that works here, why’d you make Nikki a manager?” I ask.

“She’s a good worker,” he says. “I can trust her.”

“She makes everyone’s life hell.”

“The place runs smooth, doesn’t it? She’ll lighten up after a while. Everyone leads with an iron fist before they find the best technique.” He pauses. “Why? You think the job should go to you?”

“Gosh, no,” I say, hoping my quick answer doesn’t offend him. “Although I’d treat the staff better. That’s for sure.”

“But could you put in the late hours? The long shifts? Drop whatever you’re doing because Amanda or whoever called in?” He waits, even though we both know my answers to those questions. “It’s tough work, and Nikki has earned her role, even if she’s not a peach all the time.”

Mario is right. It’s the problem that’s followed me wherever I go, every job I have. It’s not what I really want to do, and so I can’t put my all into it. Then there are people out there who try their best at anything, whether they like it or not. Maybe that’s the key to happiness or success, and the reason why both have evaded me.

“So, tell me about your latest book?” Mario says, rolling the cutlery into a napkin and tying it off in the center. “Are you working on the next Jack Reacher?”

Mario means well, so I humor him, but my stomach still clenches with anxiety. I hate talking about my writing casually.

“In between manuscripts at the moment,” I say. “Sorry, no spies.”

“Come on. That stuff’s a lot more interesting than the other junk. All those housewives killing husbands and stalking people on trains.”

I laugh. “I can’t help those are the stories I like to write. Not to mention the stories that sell.”

“Well, whatever you put out there, I’ll be first in line to buy a copy, even if I shelve it and wait until the movie comes out.”

I shake my head. “Maybe it’ll happen one day.”

“It will.” He pauses what he’s doing and looks at me. “You just have to believe in yourself.”

A clanging mess of glasses hitting the floor interrupts our conversation. We both look to the front of the restaurant, although from where we sit, it’s impossible to see who dropped what.

“Better check that out,” Mario says. He exhales and stands slowly, stretching his back. “Shift’s almost over, kid. Cheer up.”

I nod, slowly rolling the silverware and making a clean stack of each new set. A frightening vision flashes in my mind of me doing this exact same action in ten years’ time. Being a writer doesn’t come with a clear career path, and the sad truth is, you can do all the right things and still never make it. I know a few people still paying off their creative writing degrees who haven’t published a thing, and others who picked up writing as a hobby a few years back who are now bestsellers. It’s impossible to know where I’ll end up on the spectrum of success and failure, and the unknown is terrifying.

I think about Victoria. She loves writing, is the type of person who writes something every day, just because she needs a release for the words inside her. She has numerous degrees,has worked alongside some of the greats in the business, and yet, has still never found that success for herself. Sure, her cozy mystery series has some loyal readers, but it’s not brought the commercial or financial success that most aspiring writers dream about. She’s still teaching writing classes at WU, and although she claims to be happy with that job, there must be a part of her that wonders why she can’t channel all that knowledge into success, why she can teach and not do.

April and Danielle are different. Each has their own priorities that aren’t centered around writing—Danielle has her law practice and April her young family. Yet, even with those achievements, it’s not quite enough. Something inside craves more, whether it’s a creative outlet or the potential for future success. They struggle to find the time to write, but what they do produce is engaging and vivid. They’re talented, but is that ever enough?

Reluctantly, my mind goes to Marley, the newest member of the group. I can’t decide why she irks me so much. She’s young and talented, embodies the stereotype of someone who becomes a bestseller on their first try. Maybe it’s her flippant nature. The other Maidens, including myself, make it no secret that a lot of sacrifice goes into our work. Marley makes it look too easy, and I resent that.

Or maybe my distaste is because she feels so familiar. She reminds me of a time when?—

“Becca, you back here?” Mario calls out. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking the entrance to the main dining area.

“Yeah.” I’m afraid he’s about to tell me I’ve been given a new table, that I’ll have to stay here that much longer.

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