Page 153 of Story of My Life
“How did you know you wanted to write?”
I blinked and reflexively reached for my drink, pulled it closer. “Oh. Well, I guess it started with reading. I was always escaping into books as a kid. When I got a little older, I wanted to start telling my own stories. In college, I got more serious about it and took a bunch of creative writing classes. I was young and naive enough to think it wouldn’t be that hard to write an entire book.”
“Guess young, naive you was right,” he said.
I laughed. “Yeah. I guess so. I never thought of it that way. I didn’t let myself consider failure as an option.”
“What was it about the story that made you want to write the first book?” he asked.
“I caught my pseudo boyfriend and fellow creative writing major making out with another girl in his dorm room. And after plotting out several revenge scenarios with Zoey, I decided the best revenge would be to become a best-selling novelist who named shitty characters after the people who’d wronged me. I started writing the first draft that night. It never saw the light of day. Neither did the next two. But by the time I hit my mid-twenties, I’d figured out a few things.”
“You published your first novel when you were twenty-five,” he said.
Impressed, I picked up my drink. “You’ve done some research.”
He shrugged. “How long did it take you to write the first one that you sold?”
“Oh, gosh. Almost a year? I was working full-time as a bike messenger and part-time at whatever else paid the bills. I wrote between jobs and on breaks. But there was something about the potential of it all that made the writing feel like it wasn’t work.”
It felt like a long-forgotten daydream. Those stolen moments away from real life where anything could happen on the page and I was calling the shots.
“Do you ever see your story? Like, does it play in your head like you’re watching a movie?”
I cocked my head and looked at Levi. Really looked. “Are you awriter?” I demanded.
He shrunk down in his chair, glancing around as if I’d accused him of being a baby panda puncher. “Keep it down.”
“Sorry. I was just excited. Is that what all this is about? You writing?” If Levi Bishop told me he was a closet romance writer, I would fall out of my chair and then get up and dance a jig with no previous jig-dancing experience.
Before he could deign to answer or squirm out of the interrogation, there was a commotion at the door.
Out strutted the Story Lake Warblers, dressed in red, white, and blue and holdingVote for Rumpsigns.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, if we could have your attention, please,” Scooter said through cupped hands, which definitely wasn’t necessary considering there were only eight of us on the deck.
“Fuck me,” Levi muttered under his breath.
Scooter blew a note on his pitch pipe, and after a brief harmonization, the Warblers launched into a song.
“She knows our fish and knows our fowl
She’ll make bad guys throw in the towel
She’ll keep the peace after she’s won
Rump for chief, she’s number one!
Don’t be a chump
Vote for Rump!”
Everyone on the deck paused to gauge Levi’s reaction. On a long sigh, he put his hands together and applauded politely. Everyone else followed suit, and the Warblers breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sorry about this, Levi. She paid us to canvass the town,” Scooter said as the Warblers trooped off the deck.
Levi nodded.
I waited two whole seconds after the a cappella group disappeared before leaning in. “Back to this writing thing. Tell me everything. And don’t leave out the part where it took you this long to bring it up to me and why you look like you’d rather jump over the railing than let anyone else here know.”
