Page 92 of Under the Mistletoe
He caught enough of the words to make a guess as to what the pages were. “The end. Sorry to disappoint. There seems to be a lot of that going around.” He motioned toward the couch. “Mind if we sit while you, too, tell me how I failed to measure up?”
She followed him to the sitting area but didn’t join him on the couch. “I just drove through snowy weather for over two hours in that monstrosity. My shoulder is sore. That stick shift is like trying to row a boat. So you will take this conversation seriously?”
“I am.” His face hardened. “Sometimes endings are tragic. Sometimes love ends in heartbreak. That’s life.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” She stomped toward his wood-burning stove, then paced back as if choosing her words carefully. “The serial has been fun. Romantic. Entertaining even. But where is the Victor Holt who wrote the first three books? Where are the scenes that had me reading late into the night because I had to know what was next?”
“Now you sound like my editor. I’ve been trying to prove myself for the past month, and it’s still not enough. Sorry to disappoint everyone. It’s just me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You have this idealized idea of Victor Holt. Of course I’d fall short. Anyone would.”
“That isn’t what this is.”
“Then tell me what it is, because I’ve got nothing.” He shrugged, trying not to let her see how much this was tearing him up.
“I don’t think you’ve been trying to prove yourself to your editor, your writing coach, or your readers. I don’t think you care what they think. They aren’t the problem.”
“Then who is?”
“You, Logan. You are sabotaging yourself. You’re afraid that the first three books were a fluke and that’s all you have in you. You’re afraid that everyone will hate book four and that they’ll decide you’re a fake, and you’re afraid they’re right. So instead of trying your hardest and giving them a book that they’re going to love, you just quit.”
Logan leaned forward on his knees as the pressure built in his chest. “You don’t?—”
“In fact, I think you’re afraid God made a mistake when He chose you to be an author. When He picked you by putting words in your heart, a story inside you that you were supposed to write. I think that you think it should’ve been, I don’t know, Liam. Maybe Luke. Or maybe the guy who sat next to you in creative writing. Anyone but you. Because you don’t think you are worth choosing.”
The words shredded him, and he hung his head between his elbows, his hands lacing on the back of his neck. “You don’t know what it’s like to have thousands and thousands of words in your head every day and then put them out there into the world only to have people say that they’re not good enough. No one shows up ready to hand you a one-star review on your job.”
Devin flinched but didn’t seem swayed. “Those are strangers.”
“True. But guess how it feels when it’s somebody that you love. My family basically showed up telling me I was one-starring my life. And now here you are.”
“Yes, here I am. And your family didn’t show up because they were judging you. They showed up because they love you. They believe in you. They want the best for you. Your family is the type that shows up. Whether to celebrate with you, call you out when you’re making dumb choices, or just to pick you up when you’re broken. Your family shows up. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
Devin lowered herself onto the edge of the recliner, her voice softer. “Listen, you’re not the first author to go through rejection or rewrites. It doesn’t mean you aren’t a good author. It means you weren’t telling the right story.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have another story.” He sank back, his muscles heavy.
“Then go back to the One who chose you to tell this story and ask Him for the right one!”
“What if it’s too late? Maybe my season is over. Let someone else take the torch.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes locked on his. “And if you walk away, I’m sure He’ll use someone else. But I guarantee you that He doesn’t want you hiding away in a cabin feeling sorry for yourself. Several days ago you said you wanted to pursue the idea of adopting the Wallis kids. What happened to that?”
When he didn’t answer, she pushed on. “If you decide to do something like that, that isn’t a for-now idea. It’s a forever-no-matter-what idea.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? Because when things got hard between us, you took off. And doing so broke Easton’s heart. Writing. Adopting. Relationships. All of them are challenging. Hard. Wonderful. Amazing. And sometimes heartbreaking. But worth it. God doesn’t make mistakes. And until you believe that—really believe that—you’ll never be able to write a book worthy of the Victor Holt name. And three kids will be less for not knowing you, and you’ll be less for not knowing them.”
“I’m not sure I have what it takes to do either.”
“You don’t.”
Well, that was brutal honesty. He dropped his head into his hands.
Devin’s voice softened. “Do you know why Rand’s mother died trying to save his father?”
