Page 13 of The Write Off

“We just ate,” Betty says rubbing her stomach at the exact moment her boyfriend says–

“Yeah, I could eat.”

Men and their metabolisms. When Josh turned fourteen, my mother joked that she’d need to take a second mortgage out on the house just to be able to keep him fed. He doesn’t consume as much as he did as a teenager, but he can still eat more than most people I know.

“How are your revisions going?” Betty asks, glancing at my now dormant laptop on the table.

“Fine.” I remove two bagels from the bag, grab the breadknife from the drawer, and carefully start to saw through them. “This morning, I was brainstorming how to add context to one of the elven bloodlines. But it was a late night at the bar yesterday, so I made myself a coffee. As you both know, I take my coffee black which reminded me that Holly Black has a new book out that I wanted to order. Once I was online, I saw that a few more books on my list were on sale, and then I got further recommendations of what to read next after them. I wound up ordering ten. Maybe fourteen? I don’t remember. Anyway, they’ll start arriving as early as tomorrow. As you can see, the bookshelf you left behind is already overflowing, so I decided to put together the Ikea bookshelf Mom and Dad brought me when they came to visit a few weeks ago. So yeah. You could say it’s been a productive morning.”

Setting the knife down, I look up and catch them exchanging a meaningful glance. I hate when they do that. They’ve reached the hive mind state of their relationship where they communicate telepathically. Betty and I used to have our own secret language too, but now she’s got that with my brother and that’s just fine.

Don’t get me wrong. I was thrilled when these two idiots finally figured out they loved one another and decided to do something about it. They’re not only my two favorite people, but two of the best people I know. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s them.

And I’m happy for them. Truly. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like a third wheel sometimes. Most of the time. The longer I live in the same city as the happy couple, the more I feel the growing disconnect between us.

I put all four bagel halves in the toaster and force the levers down hard. Yeah, that’s right. It’s a four-slice toaster. Josh and Betty might have three hammers, but how many slices of bread can they cook at once?

“So no actual editing then?” Josh asks.

I remind myself that I love my brother and therefore should resist the urge to pelt him with the remaining bagels. The poppyseeds would get everywhere and Betty’s anxiety is already being tested by the cluttered living room

“No,” I sigh, closing my eyes. “No actual editing.”

He uses his foot to push one of the chairs out for me and I accept the invite, joining them at the table.

“You spent years working and reworking your manuscript, Rill.” His tone is soft and without a trace of condensation.

My brother isn’t wrong. I started writing Of Cinder And Sand when I was twenty years old. Between the research and the world building, it took me almost two years to finish my first draft. And then there was the second, third, and fourth, etc. I revised and reworked it a dozen times before submitting it to an agent.

“I know, but that was for me. I was making those changes because I wasn’t happy with it. Because I wanted to change things. Now someone else is looking at it and passing judgment and it’s making me doubt everything.”

I love every single part of writing. The creative process was exhilarating and empowering. I felt like the story wasn’t coming from me, but through me like I was some sort of vessel channeling it onto the page. But sharing it with others? Opening myself up to their opinions and interpretation? Changing things because someone else tells me to?

It’s terrifying. And I don’t scare easily.

The toaster pops behind me. Before I can stand, Josh is out of his seat grabbing the cream cheese from the fridge.

“But you said your meeting with Logan went well?” Betty asks with a hopeful look. “Can’t he help with any of this?”

As much as I loathe to admit it, the meeting with Logan did go well. It may have started off strained, but once we actually got into talking about the book itself, things leveled out and we actually made progress. He was encouraging and surprisingly insightful. He kept me focused and moving forward. We spent hours talking through the changes and while he didn’t always tell me what I wanted to hear, I was at least able to understand where he and his bosses were coming from.

I can’t help but wonder if I hadn’t written him off so hastily last year how much we could have accomplished.

“It was productive. We planned out all the areas I needed to work on, but left to my own devices this week, everything kind of went to hell.”

Josh returns to the table, putting a bagel with far too much cream cheese on it in front of me. “Ask him for another meeting.” He sees me about to protest, so he continues. “I know how independent you are and that you’re terrible at asking people for help.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m terrible at anything,” I sniff. “I just don’t like doing it.”

“Think of it this way. You’re not asking him to help you, you’re asking him to help the book.”

I eye him warily. “Keep talking.”

“Whatever benefits the book benefits him too, right?”

“Definitely. He’s the editor. The book’s success increases his success. Not to mention I assume it will make him look good to his bosses.”

“Exactly.” He takes a large bite of his bagel, looking thoughtful as he chews. “Whether you love or hate the guy, you’re kind of on the same team.”

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