Page 2 of The Writer

Thank you for considering Marcus Literary with your manuscript. Unfortunately, we will not be offering representation at this time, however, we wish you the best of luck…

I drop my phone onto the kitchen counter like it’s something hot and I’ve been burned. No need to keep reading. At this stage, almost all rejection letters are the same. It wasn’t even a personalized reply, just the same automated response sent to dozens of aspiring writers every day. All the publishing advice books insist rejection is an important part of the writer’s journey, sprinkled with stories of uber-famous authors who tacked their rejection letters on the wall once making it big. If I followed suit, I could wallpaper my entire apartment withpotential lessonsthat have led me nowhere.

Having abandoned my desire for caffeine, I return to the dining-room table, slumping into the chair beside my computer. My future, much like my current manuscript, is blank. Nothing in sight. Just a fragmentary story waiting to be finished.

I’m supposed to meet with the Mystery Maidens tonight, and I have nothing to show for the past week. I close the Word document and open Google. Social media is a black hole of distraction when I’m trying to write; however, sometimes scrolling local news sparks my curiosity, gets me thinking about scenarios that could potentially snowball into a story.

Whitaker is like most towns lingering outside a major city, caught somewhere between sleepy and urban. Never much excitement, but no shortage of crime. Over the weekend alone, there’ve been three arrests. One from a young man suspected of shoplifting at several Walgreens in the area. One arrest fordomestic violence. One young woman arrested for driving under the influence. Sometimes, when I’m desperate, I find myself here, scouring the crime section in search of ideas. Or worse, I think with a shudder, maybe I’m simply searching for people whose lives are worse than my own.

Either way, today’s selection is useless. If I were to investigate further, I’m sure there’s sadness in each story, but not enough to spark an idea. My thoughts are interrupted by the image of fleeting black hearts. There’s enough darkness there to inspire an entire series, but I’m not willing to go there yet.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.

I reopen the Word document, eyeing the screen like an opponent in battle.

The blinking cursor taunts me still.

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 redwine 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 joinedthe 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 aboutNight 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.”

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