Page 42 of The Heart Shot
“That’s a shame.”
Jameson’s eyes flashed. “Why is that?”
“Most girls love being serenaded.”
“Is that the ticket to winning you over? Because I’d happily dig it out for you.”
I shook my head. “Don’t waste your time.”
His face fell, and I immediately regretted my words. But why? Why did I suddenly care if I hurt his feelings? It was better that he saw my grumpy side now, so he knew not to get further involved with me.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “What do you do when you’re not eating Chick-Fil-A?”
“Besides running into you?”
He huffed a laugh. “Yes, when I’m nowhere to be found and you’re not filling your mouth with a killer chicken sandwich—pun intended by the way—what might one find you doing?”
I wiped my fingers with a napkin, erasing all signs of the greasy, heavenly fries.
“I’m a freelance writer.”
“No kidding,” he said, leaning forward as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. “How long have you been doing that?”
My gaze went to the ceiling as I considered my answer. It took two years after breaking up with Ben for anything I wrote to gain credibility, for any newspaper publications or people searching for ghostwriters to be interested in my work. Eventually I landed a few bigger gigs ghostwriting novels, which allowed me to finally quit selling mini-donuts to pay the bills and save up to buy my house.Miraculously, I still loved donuts, though I didn’t know how after spending years smelling fried sugary dough seven days a week, but even so, I never wished to return to those years again.
“I’ve been writing forever, but only seriously pursued it the last four years or so.”
He rested his chin on his hands. “What do you write?”
“Mostly newspaper or magazine articles. Sometimes I help people write blogs, and occasionally I get hired as a ghostwriter to help with someone’s book.”
“Do you ever write anything for you?”
I froze. “For me?”
He nodded. “You do a lot of writing for other people, but do you ever write things that bringyoujoy? What would you write if you didn’t have to worry about money?”
His question was a punch to the gut. All I ever dreamed of was being able to write and publish fiction novels, anything from epic fantasies to romantic comedies, or even a thriller or two. I loved books, no matter the genre.
“If I didn’t need the money to pay bills, then I would write fiction.”
Jameson’s eyes widened, his dimple making an appearance. “What kind?”
I gave a small chuckle. “Any kind, really. I’ve started a handful of books over the years when I’ve had the time, and finished one or two of them, but the publishing world is difficult to break into when you’re unknown. And I have bills to pay.” I ended with a shrug.
“That’s amazing, though.”
I squirmed in the booth. Why would he think that’s amazing? Most people didn’t understand how hard writing truly was, and tended to judge writers for not having a “real” job. If only people understood just how much writers had to battle anxiety, self-doubt, and imposter syndrome, all while trying to be creative...and it was even worse when you had to write on behalf of someone else. It tookpeople-pleasingto a whole other level.
Don’t get me wrong—I loved writing. But sometimes it was a lot, and I wished I could simply do it for me and have it be enough.
But that wasn’t how the world worked.
“Have you ever tried to publish your work?”
“Um,” I hesitated. “I’ve thought about it, but never pursued it. The novels I completed are rough.” I winced at the thought of those files, which I hadn’t touched since I ended things with Ben.
“Well, maybe you should—”
