Page 50 of Angel Eyes

“I did.” I swallowed. “I take it you won’t be submitting this for me.”

“Correct, I will not.”

My heart sank.

Crap. How had I screwed this up so badly? Of course, the draft needed work, but I never imagined the quality was poor enough to cost me the opportunity altogether.

“I understand, sir. Thank you for giving me a chance.”

He adjusted his glasses. “I will not submit this draft because I am certain you can do better.”

I blinked up at him, a tiny balloon of hope filling my chest.

“May I ask you something? Why do you want to be a writer?”

“Because it’s my passion. It’s what I want to do—”

He shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I’m sure you already do plenty of writing as a lawyer. Yet you set that aside to come here. So, I ask you again—why do you want this?”

“I … I don’t know.”

“You do know, but perhaps you are too afraid to admit it.” He circled his desk, retrieving a newer edition of La Nouvelle Revue, its shiny cover catching the light as he set it in front of me.

“I offered you this opportunity because I believe you have what it takes to have your work featured in these pages. Not because you’re the most skillful writer or because you deserve it more than anyone else, but because you have the passion for it. The path of a writer is a long one, and often it is filled with more disappointment than triumph. If you truly want this and plan to go the distance, then you need to be honest about why you’re doing it.”

I stared at him.

What if I didn’t have a profound reason for wanting to be a writer?

He returned to his desk again, rummaging around in a drawer while I tried to collect my thoughts. I didn’t know why, but I had this ominous feeling that if I couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer, I was going to blow my chance.

And this time, for real.

“Why did you write this?” He dropped a second set of stapled papers in front of me, right on top of the first. My writing sample. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but no one asked you to write this. And you weren’t paid to do it. So why? Why did you spend your time and energy on this?”

“Because I enjoy it …”

He shook his head. “No, try again.” I balled my hands in my lap, an influx of frustration filling my chest. He frowned. “I’m still waiting for an answer, Ms. Chandler.”

My nostrils flared. “Because it’s the only place I can be my authentic self, okay?” To his credit, Benoit didn’t flinch at the sharpness of my tone. I released a shaky exhale. “There’s all this pressure at my firm to be a certain type of person, to conform to the standard that nothing matters more than the work we’re doing. Not family or friends or even your own happiness. The environment can be so oppressive.”

I looked at the excerpt of my novella I had submitted with my application. “I wrote this because this is where I can be the truest version of myself. On the page, there’s no requirement to fit into any pre-designed mold. I can just be. And when the pressures of real life become too much, my writing is like a shield, protecting my heart and soul. It’s where I retreat to survive. It’s where I go to live.”

His lips twitched. “There it is. I want you to rewrite the piece from that place.”

He raised an eyebrow in question, and I nodded, heart thundering in my chest.

“Good. I look forward to seeing what you can really do, Juliet.”

Eighteen

Juliet

My phone flickered to life on the table where I sat hunched over my draft, sifting through Benoit’s comments and sipping on my second latte of the day.

I glanced over at it.

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